So You Want To Be A Stewardess

So long, and thanks for all the flights

In conclusion, this job absolutely has its shitty moments.

In fact, one time, a woman literally handed me shit. It was her baby's soiled diaper, and I was walking past with the silver tray, clearing the cabin. She handed it to me, and before my brain registered what it was, I'd taken it and put it on the tray. I think I even said, "Thank you, Ma'am".

That was, till the stench hit my nostrils and I looked down. I gagged and fled to the toilet to dump it. Sometimes when you expect used plastic cups, life gives you baby shit instead.

Despite nasty surprises like these, I loved it because it kept things interesting.

I had not grown up aspiring to be a Singapore Girl, and had only applied because everything else seemed bland. Flying had seemed different and exciting.

But fast forward 2+ years, and flying started to get... you guessed it. Bland. One flight melded into another, indistinguishable. I got into the rut of eating at the same places overseas, what we nicknamed crew joints. I walked the same routes in cities. I bought nail polish compulsively, accumulating more than I would ever use in a lifetime.

On flights, every passenger now seemed whiny and tiresome, forever fighting over complimentary newspapers and sneaking into business class to use the nicer toilets there, constantly wanting more, more, more.

I also resented missing out on friends' birthdays, drink sessions, family get-togethers. I was away for Chinese New Year one year and cried like a baby, even though I was lucky enough to be in Tokyo.

Then, just before a close friend's wedding, I got my new roster and saw that I was rostered for a shitty flight on her wedding day.

It was the kind of flight that I wasn't going to be able to swap with other crew in exchange for off days, even if I offered them money. And it was too late to apply for leave. In my mind, I built it up to become this colossal, impossible problem to solve, and so I concluded - aah, fuck it. I'll just quit. That was it. Done. On my last flight, I felt nothing.

It wasn't till a couple of weeks later, when I was slurping a coffee, watching office workers drag their feet to the train station, when the sudden memory of another overworked woman in office wear popped up. She'd been a passenger on one of my Kuala Lumpur turnaround flights ages ago. 

The memory played, clear as day.

She stood waiting to disembark, weighed down with all her bags: handbag, laptop bag, overnight bag. I asked if she was travelling for work, and she said, "Home." I smiled and commented, time for a well-deserved break huh? Only to see her face crumple unexpectedly, surprising us both. 

"I'm sorry," she kept repeating, embarrassed. Her eyes welled up with tears. "...it's my mum. She's not well. She's..." she dared not finish her sentence. We stared at each other, wordlessly. She was trying so hard to hold it all in, to not break down in front of a plane full of strangers, that I quashed my instinct to give her a hug. Instead, I grabbed a box of tissues from the toilet and handed it to her. She smiled. 

As that particular memory came to an end, it struck me that every passenger had their own story. Everyone travels for a reason, and mine, though for work, was to play a small part in making people's journeys a little more comfortable. 

In exchange, I got to see the world, meet hundreds of strangers weekly, and had some astonishing adventures. For all of that, I am glad to say: So long, and thanks for all the flights.