Flying the Friendly Skies

Lately I’ve been spending some time on planes. Here’s a recap: delays, weather, then a not-to-be-described incident on the runway that has led me to always choose tea instead of coffee before getting to the gate. Whenever I start to get nervous or frustrated about my journeys, I always tell myself, “at least I’m getting some miles on this journey.” I recently joined a miles program and have taken to it with the zeal that I wish I could apply to an exercise regimen or housekeeping plan. I don’t even travel that much, but every time I hear that I will need to fly somewhere for work or for fun, I immediately try to calculate the miles. I check on my miles, I’m truly embarrassed to say, every week. So far I’ve taken 9 trips and I have no idea what that translates to.

What do the miles mean? I know what they do not mean. A few months ago I tried to call the airline to see if I could use my status as a miles collector, someone committed to flying their god-awful airline whenever possible, to change my scheduled flight out of a delightful Midwestern city. Apparently, as a miles collector, I could change my itinerary by a total of 8 hours for a total of $748. Shunned despite my devoted mile-collecting which so far has had no tangible perks. In aforementioned Midwestern city when I checked in for my flight at the kiosk--using my miles number of course because record locators are for losers--an upgrade option flashed on the screen! Was I getting special treatment because of my slow but promising miles accrual? I touch-screened the option to get more details. Upgrade to first class for a mere $90. Frustrated with the tease, I chose to proceed without the upgrade.

What’s the point of miles? I don’t have a miles credit card because I don’t need any other tools to dig myself into a hole. Like the rest of my fellow generation-mates who went to boutique colleges and are trying to make it in the workplace without selling out, I’m already terrified by mounting credit card debt, the inability to get ahead, the impossibility of ever owning a residence in a place I would like to reside, the impending crisis of Social Security and the current breakdown of our health care system. I don’t even travel that much for work. I will never be a miles maven. But I love checking on the miles and trying to think up inflated estimates of the benefits of my having joined a miles program. It’s even better than my 401k plan because that’s actual money, and the options of my plan overwhelm me and make me feel stupid. This is why I try to ignore the emails I get from my miles dealer about buying more miles. The concept of buying miles ruins the joy I get in just checking on my miles. They’re something I completely don’t understand—tokens with hazy conversion rates that, in the best scenario, might help me go somewhere I probably would have gone anyway. Maybe I should start fantasy football.