Usually when I'm upgraded to first class, particularly on a red eye to the east cost, I'm pretty excited. And then when I board the plane and relax in my chair and stretch my legs, I think to myself, this isn't so bad. And when I wake up after a restful four hours of much needed sleep ready to start a Monday full of vim and vigor, I think, I'm really glad I was in first class again. And that's usually how it happens. Except when it doesn't.
Two weeks ago, I was getting ready to stretch out in first class and looked at the empty seat to my right and slowly stretched out my arms and let out an audible cheer. One minute too early. Running on board with a minute to spare was our last passenger. And she took the first class seat next to mine. Usually in first class, we say our polite hellos and sink into first class land. Not this time. I could tell immediately that something was amiss.
First, she looked like a meth addict. Sunken in cheeks and weighing less than a 100 pounds easy. And second, she had the jitters. She couldn't stop twitching. Then she opened her mouth and didn't stop speaking for the next 5 hours. I won't even go into details, but suffice it to say that she had mental health issues. I think at one point, when she was talking about a terrible man she had a relationship and a child with, she made a circle with one hand and poking it by using the index finger on her other hand, told me that she shouldn't have had intercourse with that man.
At one blessed silent moment, she was quiet for all of 10 seconds, so I quickly curled up, turned away, and closed my eyes. To no avail. She, in rapid succession, turned the light on and off, making that loud clicking sound, until I opened my eyes and she said, "Oh, you're awake? I'm so glad. I hate flying and need someone to talk to."