The Hardest Part of a Flight Attendant’s Job You’ll Never See
Corporate flight attendants spend our days on luxurious jets traveling to fabulous locations with the uber-rich and famous. How could we possibly ever have a bad day at work? The tasks of a corporate flight attendant, like making coffee and serving salads aren’t difficult at all. The job’s challenge is the emotional labor — the extra mental effort needed to create the desired environment. The trickiest thing about emotional labor is that it isn’t seen or felt by anyone other than the person doing it. It’s an invisible, unspoken requirement.
How do you measure emotional labor? You can’t — there are no units and if they were, it would be different for every person. Keeping not only a straight face, but one filled with concern and empathy as you listen to an uber-privileged passenger complain about a cashmere blanket not being soft enough or smoked salmon being too “salmon-y” comes easier to some than others. Each person does a different amount of emotional labor to accomplish the same task.
Most days, the emotional labor of my flights is light lifting. I spent ten years as an ICU pharmacist in a pediatric hospital. By comparison, being a corporate flight attendant is a walk in the park. However, I’ve had two particularly craptastic days that got to me.
The longest long haul…
The flight was 14 hours from Miami to Abu Dhabi. It was the longest flight I’d ever been on in my life. The length of time I would be schlepping iced coffee and cheese trays to passengers who treat the flight like an all-you-can-eat buffet was daunting. When I wasn’t doing service, I cleaned the galley and cared for the three pilots (instead of the usual two).
To make matters worse, I was in the throes of burnout. My schedule had been beyond demanding with flight after flight and little rest in between. I’d even forgotten how to grocery shop for myself. At the store, I would pick up a jar of peperoncini (a passenger favorite) then I remember I don’t even eat those weird little peppers. There was a plan to get me help. Unfortunately, the timing wasn’t right. The flight attendant who was to be my main relief had to step down because she got pregnant. I was happy for her and her husband but sadder for myself, especially because I’d just been dumped for being too old to have babies (If Kourtney Kardashian and Gwen Stefani can have babies at 44 years old, why can’t I? Plus, I’m not even fucking 40 yet!). I felt like the Universe was taunting me. While the team regrouped to figure out a new path forward, I spent more time in the sky than on the ground. All the hustling left me tired and salty.
On top of all the demands of the job, I was struggling with the breakup. I really, really liked the guy and I thought he felt the same. He had no problem acting like my boyfriend until I asked him to actually be my boyfriend. Then suddenly I was too octogenarian and he was done with me. We’d been over for almost a month but I couldn’t shake him. My frustration I wasn’t over him was growing by the day, adding shame and anger (shocker, not super helpful!). I’d spent my downtime lying on my couch watching crime shows on Netflix (no lovey-dovey shit), overindulging in self-isolation. The pep talks from my friends made me want to vomit. If one more person told me “Everything happens for a reason” I was gonna flip my shit.
And because life likes to stick it to you all at once, I had been sick for almost a month. Three weeks before the trip, I was laid up with a cold for a couple of days, then I started to feel better. After a week or so, my health plateaued. My left sinus felt like the studio for a Mucinex commercial. The angry booger man was trying to take up residence in my face. The cold had morphed into a sinus infection. With two days for the antibiotic to kick in before the trip, I was hopeful I would be in good enough shape for the flight.
After only 24 hours of treatment, a new problem presented: The antibiotic gave me diarrhea like I’d never had before. My rear end was erupting with the force of Old Faithful paired with the steady flow of a river. The prospect of being trapped in a metal tube in the sky for 14 hours was horrifying. My doctor adjusted the antibiotic dosage, and the diarrhea geyser was just going dormant by the time I reported for duty. However, the possibility of shitting myself was still very real.
The entirety of my pre-flight prep was done with a clenched butthole. The pressure was building in my lower abdomen. I was making the aft bed, grimacing with the effort to contain myself when a solution to all my woes occurred to me… If I shit myself, maybe I can just go home. My hands pressed into the duvet cover I had been obsessively smoothing. Would the embarrassment be worth it? Hmmm…
I, a 38-year-old woman with full control of her bowels, was seriously considering purposefully shitting my pants so I could go home.
If that doesn’t tell you the depravity of my emotional, mental, and physical state, I don’t know what will. I decided against a planned emergency defecation. And fortunately, other than some serious bloating, there were no inflight issues. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to slam my hotel door closed and hide than when we arrived in Abu Dhabi.
Happy birthday?
When it comes to birthdays, I’m not one of those people. You know the kind that makes a BIG. FUCKING. DEAL about their birthday. The entire month of their birth is about them. They have multiple events for their birthday. They expect and demand recognition and gifts for their birthday. Their social media is like an advent calendar, each day revealing the same awesome thing to their followers — you are blessed by their birth! Don’t get me wrong. I’m not hating on them. I actually admire the childlike sense of joy. I just can’t get down with demanding all that attention.
My birthday request is simple: I don’t want to work. I know. That’s so bare minimum and boring. Confession time… birthday party planning is very anxiety-producing for me. I’m nervous no one will come or they will come and won’t have a good time. As my 38th birthday approached, my party-planning nerves were through the roof.
Given my increasingly unpredictable schedule, I didn’t even know if I could attend a party, let alone my guests. Even the idea of planning a celebration was exhausting. Essentially every flight I work on is a mini-event to orchestrate. Deciding on a party theme, a menu, and activities seemed too much like being at work. Plus, I didn’t want to be the hostess. To be a fabulous host, you ensure your guests have a great time. It’s fun but not relaxing. And you know what being a great hostess is very similar to? BEING A FLIGHT ATTENDANT. The truth is, I wanted a birthday party that someone else planned so I could just show up and have fun. That kind of party happens when you’re turning eight, not thirty-eight.
The only thing I wanted for my 38th birthday was to not be on a flight. Despite having requested to be off on my big day three months prior, I had to fly. The flight was in the afternoon from Teterboro, NJ back down to Miami, FL so I had the morning to myself. I did my favorite muscle groups for my workout (booty and obliques). I walked along the Weehawken waterfront with a latte from my favorite neighborhood cafe. Workout and walkabout done, I still had a couple of hours to relax before grabbing lunch and heading to the airport.
Then my phone buzzed.
“Boss wants to get back to Miami early to beat the storm. What’s the soonest you can be at the airport?” The executive assistant texted the crew.
Within 20 minutes, I showered, packed my suitcase, and was in the car with my pilots on the way to the airport. I had a brief moment of panic when I realized my restaurant delivery was completely screwed by the time change. I had no catering for the flight. Luckily, the chef was flying with us. He brought food to cover catering. The adrenaline rush simmered and I started to feel happy about the prospect of being home earlier on my birthday. I texted a friend and we made plans to play pickleball after I landed. The pushed-up departure time was a curveball but a good one.
The flight was busy. Requests for food and drink between the pilots and passengers were almost non-stop. The chef helped with food prep which was great. However, this was our first flight together. I’m more of a soloist than an ensemblist so it takes a lot for me to work with someone, much less a stranger (my friend tells me I treat strangers the same way she teaches her nine-year-old to… I’m highly sus). The galley is my safe space on the jet. That’s where I go when I need to look out the window and collect my shit. I can’t do that with someone staring at me expectantly.
While the chef was a great guy, he was all up in my space for the majority of the flight. At one moment he felt compelled to show me picture after picture of a vacation. Please stop. I smiled, nodded, and ‘Oh cool’-’d until it was over.
My hands started shaking from low blood sugar and I realized it was 3:00 p.m., and I hadn’t eaten since 7:00 a.m. With the scramble to the airport, I didn’t have time to pick up anything. My birthday lunch was a packet of protein powder mixed with almond milk. As I stirred my nutritionally packed gruel, the galley door slid open, and the executive assistant popped his head into the galley.
“Hey, Claire. Can I have a tea? And I’m starving! What do we have? Is there more chicken salad?”
“Of course.” I smiled “I’ll have it right out for you.” I pushed my sad half-mixed bowl of protein powder and almond milk off to the side. My stomach growled longingly.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to do on my birthday. Putting someone else’s needs before mine. A sarcastic crooked smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Yet here I am.
After you…
The flight time, demands of the passengers (and pilots), catering snafus, and chaotic schedule changes didn’t make these two flights difficult. Tucking my heart up the sleeve of my blouse was the hard part. I needed to put myself first but I couldn’t.
As flight attendants, we’re there to take care of our passengers’ needs. To make them feel happy, safe, and relaxed, and no matter how stressed we are, we must moderate our own emotions. Any facial expression other than a pleasant smile is wrong. I know all my passengers’ and pilots’ food and beverage preferences, like who wants Truvia and who takes Splenda or who hates coconut and who loves it. Their personal preferences menus live rent-free in my mind. And I have all their favorite treats stocked and ready for every flight.
Does anyone have my menu memorized? Does anyone know which Nespresso pod is my favorite and not only what creamer I like but the exact amount? Does anyone notice when I’m having a bad day?
No. Nope. And absolutely not.
That’s the way it's supposed to be and that’s why so much emotional labor is necessary to do the job well. If a corporate flight attendant is having a bad day, you’ll never know. Even when it’s heavy, we still make the smile look effortless.
