Hunger Strike
I’m a tightwad. So as I sit here on a flight from Dallas, Texas, to Kona, Hawaii, to visit my brother’s family, I am shocked to discover that the airline no longer provides complimentary meals or snacks.
What? I fume. I pay almost $1000 for this flight, am trapped here twelve
hours, and they aren’t going to feed me? I refuse to fork over another $5.00 for a mere turkey sandwich. I feel it my personal responsibility to justice and all that is right to stand firm (or sit, as it were). It’s not just the $5.00; it’s the principle of the matter! Where is the lost graciousness of air travel? Where are the perks of a long flight – the two full-length movies and a decent meal? Where, in fact, are a blanket and one of those cute miniature pillows? Thus I begin my own personal hunger strike.
Instantly, my moments-ago full stomach starts to grumble and whine. I sit stubbornly in my narrow seat casting furtive looks at the passengers ahead of me opening their snack boxes. Humph, I mutter to myself. Cheezits and Oreos, who needs them? I have an unopened packet of pretzels in my purse from a previous, more generous flight. I reassure myself that I won’t starve, though pretzels are my least favorite snack. Tasteless pretzels are a fitting companion for the water I’ll order. At least water is still free. Surely.
The rustle of pre-packaged food items and happy munching increases my dissatisfaction. The cart is drawing closer to my aisle. I stare ahead, leaning my chair back a notch. It rumbles closer. I put a piece of gum in my mouth. I pick up the emergency procedures card and diligently study the diagrams. Perhaps I will need to know how to use my seat as a flotation device as we fly over Arizona. Nearer and nearer come the flight attendants and with them my last opportunity for guaranteed sustenance. Can I really let it go by and remain empty handed? The ten hours remaining loom long in my mind. I’ll eat pretzels and then sleep ‘till we get there, I tell myself.
But then another voice inside pipes up, reminding me of the $2.00 I saved when they passed out complimentary headphones since the video projector was broken. Instantly I only have to justify $3.00. My resolve crumbles. “I’ll take one!” I blurt out to the flight attendant, now at my elbow. To eat later, I tell myself. When it’s dinner time, it will be worth it. My hunger strike ends.
Soon the drink cart follows. Great, what will I have to pay for this? However, the flight attendant offers a selection of complimentary juices and sodas. When I select a cranapple juice, she asks if I would like the whole can. I nod profusely, feeling like I have just scored the deal of the century. Wow! The whole can free! Along with the drink, she places before me a packet of pretzels. I put it in my purse for later…just in case.
I’m a tightwad. So as I sit here on a flight from Dallas, Texas, to Kona, Hawaii, to visit my brother’s family, I am shocked to discover that the airline no longer provides complimentary meals or snacks.
What? I fume. I pay almost $1000 for this flight, am trapped here twelve
hours, and they aren’t going to feed me? I refuse to fork over another $5.00 for a mere turkey sandwich. I feel it my personal responsibility to justice and all that is right to stand firm (or sit, as it were). It’s not just the $5.00; it’s the principle of the matter! Where is the lost graciousness of air travel? Where are the perks of a long flight – the two full-length movies and a decent meal? Where, in fact, are a blanket and one of those cute miniature pillows? Thus I begin my own personal hunger strike.
Instantly, my moments-ago full stomach starts to grumble and whine. I sit stubbornly in my narrow seat casting furtive looks at the passengers ahead of me opening their snack boxes. Humph, I mutter to myself. Cheezits and Oreos, who needs them? I have an unopened packet of pretzels in my purse from a previous, more generous flight. I reassure myself that I won’t starve, though pretzels are my least favorite snack. Tasteless pretzels are a fitting companion for the water I’ll order. At least water is still free. Surely.
The rustle of pre-packaged food items and happy munching increases my dissatisfaction. The cart is drawing closer to my aisle. I stare ahead, leaning my chair back a notch. It rumbles closer. I put a piece of gum in my mouth. I pick up the emergency procedures card and diligently study the diagrams. Perhaps I will need to know how to use my seat as a flotation device as we fly over Arizona. Nearer and nearer come the flight attendants and with them my last opportunity for guaranteed sustenance. Can I really let it go by and remain empty handed? The ten hours remaining loom long in my mind. I’ll eat pretzels and then sleep ‘till we get there, I tell myself.
But then another voice inside pipes up, reminding me of the $2.00 I saved when they passed out complimentary headphones since the video projector was broken. Instantly I only have to justify $3.00. My resolve crumbles. “I’ll take one!” I blurt out to the flight attendant, now at my elbow. To eat later, I tell myself. When it’s dinner time, it will be worth it. My hunger strike ends.
Soon the drink cart follows. Great, what will I have to pay for this? However, the flight attendant offers a selection of complimentary juices and sodas. When I select a cranapple juice, she asks if I would like the whole can. I nod profusely, feeling like I have just scored the deal of the century. Wow! The whole can free! Along with the drink, she places before me a packet of pretzels. I put it in my purse for later…just in case.
