MR. 1A

The one question that I get asked by my family and friends is,   "How many men try to pick you up on when you are flying?" "If only it were that simple" I tell them.

With the onset of today's road warriors who carry an array of, laptops, cell phones, DVD, CD or MP3 players, PDAs and or Gameboys(r), most of them are far to self-absorbed, and engrossed in their game of solitaire to even notice the cute flight attendant who just handed them their, coffee... BLACK, orange juice.. NO ICE, and just a cup of water... when you get a chance!

Not to say that there aren't male passengers who try to get my digits, but they are generally the ones who fly once a year, and are still under the impression that my primary funtion is a "flying airmattress."  Boy are they in for a surprise when they call the number that I slipped them, only to find out that it's the local chat line!

I have met some swell road warriors in my time.  They usually occupy seat 1A.  That seat is prime real estate if you are one of our top tier travelers.  It's the closest to the door, great bulkhead legroom (as far as regional jets are concerned), and the flight attendant is your captive audience, since my jumpseat is facing you.  If you just happen to be single, cute, and whitty, I just might find a second or two to chat you up.  There have been alot of Mr. 1As that I have had the opportunity to interact with.  A few I have gone out with on a layover, like a guy named Anton, who showed my all around Portland, Maine.  As well as some that I wish I had gone out with, like Jason, the one that I am about to tell you about.