I would imagine that the United States seems like a much smaller place if you’re a flight attendant. If you’re traveling cross-country three times in a day, it has to lose some of its allure. And magic. Which is a shame.
I’ve flown my fair share of times (to and from school, etc), and I still love flying. It never gets old, even when I’m half-dead from a lack of sleep and the slow-to-dissipate stress from packing (because I think I’m literally incapable of starting my packing endeavors any earlier than midnight before a 6 a.m. flight. It’s inevitable).
But regardless, I’m still in love with flying. I still love the exhilaration of take-off, the thrill of seeing a familiar face in a terminal of strangers, and the inner leaping of my heart when I find that my suitcase fits neatly under the 50 lb weight limit.
I used to want to be a flight attendant like nobody’s business. I wanted that cute blue suit, wanted to chat with attractive pilots, and fly all over the country. I still wouldn’t mind that, I guess. Especially the flirting with pilots part.
But the way I see it, flying wouldn’t be the same if I did it everyday.
Old hat = no more fun.
So I’m sticking to my day job (or will, once I get one). And I’ll continue to love flying, and I’ll still get enjoyment from being a speedy security check-through-er, and I’ll love finding that one restaurant in the Denver airport with fresh, not soggy sandwiches. Ka-ching!