Private planes likely make you think of caviar, champagne, and Fergie singing “G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S.” It makes me think of cold chicken fingers and not reading.
This week I flew to Philadelphia for the day with colleagues to visit clients. This is notable because it is the only flying situation I can think of when I don’t even bring a book. You read that right. Flying private means NO airport security lines, NO waiting and NO leg room (the first two items being more notable). As I sat knee-to-knee across from a Co-Worker Who Has Never Heard Of This Blog, I realized how awkward it would be to pull out a big honkin’ novel and dive in. No way, let’s talk about business stuff.
Flying private sounds glamorous thanks to Fergie Ferg, and it is from a convenience stand point. But when you are actually in that tuna can in the sky eating snacks that are better served hot and playing footsie with your co-workers it’s really more funny than anything. Especially after two plastic bottles of Jim Beam.
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