pizza in first class

Walking past first class demands a plan to be made. Ahead of time.

Do I look them in the eye?

Do I avoid the suits and ties and trendy glasses in my important search for 18A?

Well, on Sunday night, flying home, I looked. And I couldn’t believe it.

Two boxes of pizza sat in front of a college-age student in first class. (Never mind you that the seatbacks and tray tables were to be in the upright and locked position.)

I thought, Buddy, you’re in first class! Didn’t you know you don’t have to bring your own food? And pizza? In a triangular, cardboard box like you got it from a hole-in-the-wall joint. Make that two boxes. How long do you think we’ll be on this plane?

It seemed so crazy. So sad. Like he didn’t know who he was in 1A or what provision came with that identity.

Oh.

Sounds a bit like me when I forget who I am. No, it’s never as obvious as bringing pizza as a carryon when I’m in first class (which doesn’t happen anymore). It’s subtle. Little Miss Independent takes control when I don’t see her coming. She doesn’t like to wait. She loves her own plan.

But then I turn red in the face when I smell the greasy pizza (or whatever my self-made provision is) I brought and realize my foolishness. Why do I forget? I think I may have been the one to whom Jesus spoke the words of Matthew 6:25-33.

Ok, me and the kid in 1A.