There is a very specific, low-grade irritation that lives in my body, somewhere between the place where I keep old parking grudges and the memory of someone chewing too loudly on a plane. It resurfaces every time I’m reminded that flight attendants—people with access to one of the modern world’s most intoxicating perks—regularly waste their companion benefits on people who do not travel.
Not “don’t travel much.” Don’t travel at all.
These benefits, for the uninitiated, are golden tickets. They are portals. They are Willy Wonka with wings. And yet they are so often bestowed upon a mother who will use them exactly once to visit Cousin Gladys in Olive Branch, Mississippi. Olive Branch, which is not even trying to be exciting. Olive Branch, which does not require a pass soaked in aviation magic to access. Olive Branch, where the highlight is a Cracker Barrel gift shop and a conversation about someone’s blood pressure.
If she uses it twice, and this is statistically rare, the second trip is always to Las Vegas. Always. As if the pass itself sighs and says, “Fine. Let’s go. Damn.” She will come back with a visor, a headache, and a story about losing forty dollars very quickly, like it was stolen by Venetian.
Then there is the partner. The shaky partner. The one introduced with a pause. “This is… Mark.” Mark, who is allowed to use the benefit only when they are traveling together, which is never, because their relationship exists in a delicate state of ongoing negotiation. The pass becomes a couples therapy tool. A bargaining chip. “We could go to Phoenix,” one of them says, and the other hears, “we are still trying.” No one should have to sit in 23B under that kind of emotional weight.
Meanwhile, there are people like me. People who would treat those benefits like a calling, a ministry, a sacred obligation. I would fly to see Hozier in his hometown, in a pub, on a Tuesday, surrounded by men named Declan who all look like they were carved from damp wood. I would cry respectfully. I would then skip over to Amsterdam because I once won a meal in a contest at Mooshka and have been waiting—patiently, loyally—for the universe to honor that promise.
I would go everywhere. I would go nowhere twice. I would turn a standby list into a lifestyle.
Instead, these passes sit unused, stiffening in digital drawers, like joints afflicted with gout. Swollen with possibility. Untouched. Wasted on people who say things like, “I just don’t like airports,” as if that is a personality and not a failure of imagination.
Flight attendants should add travelers. Not relatives by default. Not obligation picks. Not people whose idea of adventure is upgrading to Comfort Plus and telling the story forever. Add the ones who will say yes at 4:17 a.m. Add the ones who pack fast, cry briefly, and board cheerfully. Add the people who understand that travel is not a luxury but a circulatory system for the soul.
Add the ones who will get lost on purpose.
I am not asking to be prioritized over your mother. I am simply suggesting that if your mother has not expressed curiosity about Slovenia, she may not be the best steward of international flight privileges. I am saying that if your partner needs reassurance before booking a flight, the pass is already doing too much emotional labor.
These benefits are not heirlooms. They are not commemorative plates. They are perishable. They beg to be used by people who know how to use them.
Give them to the friend who will fly overnight, land hungry, and eat something questionable because it’s local. Give them to the one who keeps a running list titled “Cities I’ll Cry In.” Give them to someone who will change their life incrementally, one boarding group at a time.
Give them to someone who understands that the miracle is not the free flight. It’s the access. It’s the audacity. It’s the idea that on a random Sunday afternoon you could be somewhere else entirely, listening to unfamiliar laughter, learning a new word for bread.
Do not give them to Cousin Gladys. She is doing just fine.
