I hope I never make it inside the Admiral’s Club at the airport.
I know, that sounds crazy. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to hang out at the Admiral’s Club when they’re waiting for their plane?
The craziest part is that I’m all for luxe living. I travel on a regular basis and I have no burning desire to be lumped in with the rest of the riff-raff (no offense).
But here’s the thing. I don’t want to go inside the Admiral’s Club because I know that it’ll just break my heart.
In my mind, the Admiral’s Club is literally teeming with Admirals and other power brokers. Behind those sliding glass doors is a veritable world of pleasure. The liquor flows freely and is always top-shelf. The massages are free; they don’t require an appointment and they come with or without aromatherapy treatments. Scores of important decisions are made inside the club: everything from IMF policy to casting decisions for next season’s crop of TV pilots.
Inside the Admiral’s Club I’ll be so stuffed from the Wagyu beef skewers that I’ll barely have room for the lobster tails. I’ll watch movies in the hi-def screening room before they’re even released in the theaters. My ipod, Blackberry and laptop will be thoughtfully charged up for me and even the little wheels on my standard-edition black wheely bag will be oiled up for smooth gliding. When I’m finally, reluctantly ready for my flight a secret pneumatic tube will effortlessly deliver me to the front of the line for boarding.
Now that’s what I call an Admiral’s Club.
In reality, I suspect that behind those sliding glass doors will be a depressing desk manned by an underpaid and overworked airline employee. They’ll be a few over-stuffed but under-comfortabled chairs facing a 27” tube television permanently set to FOX News. The only refreshments will be a basket of honey-roasted peanuts and a couple of warm cans of Mr. Pibb. If I’m lucky, I’ll find yesterday’s edition of USA Today, but the junior jumble will already have been ruined. The room will be so hot from the broken A/C that I’ll doze off and miss my flight.
See my dilemma?
It reminds me of when I was a boy and I was completely convinced that women’s rooms truly were lounges – spacious, filled with comfy loveseats and flattering lighting. Of course, I was shattered when I learned that women’s rooms were exactly like men’s rooms, except there was an extra stall replacing the urinals.
Eventually, reality always wins. So in the case of the Admiral’s Club I’m going to hold onto my imagination for just a little while longer. Next time you’re at the airport look for me. I’ll be the guy not in the Admiral’s Club with a dreamy, wistful look on his face.