The Mile-High Misery Club
On Tuesdays, I usually write about people you should know—unsung heroes, remarkable lives, the kind of people who make the world slightly less unbearable.
Today, I’m writing about someone you shouldn’t.
Me.
Specifically, me in an airport. Me on a plane. Me in any enclosed public space where seat belts are involved and a toddler is licking something unsanitary. I wasn’t always like this. But last week reminded me of what air travel does to a person.
I have over three million frequent flier miles. Yes, you read that right. It sounds impressive until you realize that I earned them through a sustained exposure to human behavior at its worst. Some people climb Everest. I’ve sat in seat 22C next to a man eating tuna salad with his fingers.
I will never use those miles. Not for an upgrade, not for a weekend to Lisbon, not even to outrun a warrant. It would be like asking a prisoner of war to swing by the former camp for old times’ sake. I don’t need to relive it. I was there. I remember the smells, the screaming, the cold cheese cubes. Those miles aren’t a reward, they’re a record. Proof that I endured. Proof that I escaped.
The contempt begins at TSA. There’s always a woman in front of me wearing Roman sandals and an ankle bracelet that requires its own tray. She’s layered in jewelry like she’s just emerged from a museum gift shop and seems genuinely surprised that removing it takes more than five seconds. Behind her is a man in cargo shorts yelling, “But it’s unopened!” while holding a Costco-sized bottle of shampoo like it’s the nuclear football.
And then there’s the airport bathroom, where any last hope for human dignity goes to die. I once overheard a man walk a client through a full PowerPoint deck from inside a stall, pausing only to ask if everyone could see slide seven.
It’s hard to describe the ambiance of a men’s room stall to anyone who hasn’t spent time in one. It’s less like a private office and more like the inside of a garbage chute during a storm. To willingly settle in and conduct business from that environment requires a level of confidence bordering on clinical. At the very least, the people on the other end of the call should be told they’re negotiating with someone who is actively sitting on porcelain in what could easily be designated as a hazmat zone.
By the time I get to the gate, I am a shell of myself. Group 8 and 9 have already mobbed the line like villagers hunting Frankenstein, clutching rolling suitcases instead of torches, determined to storm the jet bridge whether it’s their turn or not. Boarding zones mean nothing here. They’re ceremonial—read aloud like wedding vows no one intends to honor.
Then comes the plane. A floating social experiment with tray tables. Headphones go in. Not because I’m listening to anything, but because it’s the closest thing I have to a force field. Still, the games begin.
I’ve had people fall asleep on me, spill drinks on me, drool on me. One man with a goatee and a bucket of Panda Express in his lap kept whispering “lawnmower” in his sleep like it was a safe word. A woman once tried to balance a full glass of red wine on the armrest during heavy turbulence. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m an artist.” Huh?
People take off their shoes. Some, their socks. Then, for reasons known only to them and Satan, begin grooming. One man clipped his toenails into a napkin and looked personally offended when I demanded him to stop, as though I’d interrupted a religious ritual mid-benediction.
I’ve sat next to celebrities. Semi-famous actors giving off I-dare-you-not-to-recognize-me energy. A cartoonishly large former athlete who required a seatbelt extender for his ego. And one adult film star who, somewhere over Kansas, told me she’d just returned from the AVN Awards. “Best Group Scene,” she said, then added, “Do you want to see the trophy?” I told her I was flattered, but no thank you.
Two people have died on flights I’ve been on. Both en route to Europe (although I believe that was just a coincidence). On one, a doctor seated with us in business class was called to the back of the plane. He returned mid-cheese course, folded his napkin, and informed us the passenger hadn’t made it. Someone asked if this meant we’d land early. We didn’t. They dimmed the lights and served dessert.
Once, a woman sobbed so loudly while watching Sleepless In Seattle that the flight attendant came back to check on her. I wish I were exaggerating. He leaned down and gently asked, “Ma’am, are you all right?” She wasn’t. None of us were.
I’ve been propositioned by a swinger couple on a red-eye. The man wore a fox-shaped neck pillow. The woman passed me a napkin that said It Will Be Fun. I said nothing. Though, to be fair, I have a bad back that makes flying excruciating, and I was chewing on hydrocodone like they were Mentos at the time.
There is more. So much more.
I used to think all this exposure to humans would make me more patient. A global citizen. The kind of person who writes wistful essays about serendipity and connection. Instead, it has turned me into someone who has fantasized about buying a second seat just to avoid eye contact. Someone who silently judges passengers based on snack choices and suitcase behavior. Someone who can now identify a menace by the sound of their flip-flops or Crocs as they walk down the aisle.
Three million miles. Two in-flight deaths. One adult film trophy politely declined. And zero remaining hope for airborne redemption.
If I have to go somewhere, I’ll walk. And you will be happy I did.