I'm typing to you large and in charge from business class on my flight to JFK. Yes, it would seem that my August Humble-Pie-a-polooza is off to a pretty great beginning. I mean there's pomegranate hand soap in the lavatory, for shizsakes. That alone was worth waking up at 4.30am and having the Supershuttle driver text while he drove the entire expanse to LAX with the A/C off. Though it was kind of like a little eastern european adventure all its own, with his smoking outside the van, crappy attitude and the general pre-dawn steam bath ambiance. 

If I had thought, even for a second, that the slightest hint of a possibility of an upgrade existed for me, I may have passed on the $15 La Brea Bakery panini I bought right before I got to the gate. But as it is, I've had two fat breakfasts and a bloody mary (two turntables and a microphone!) before 10am and there's wifi and a footrest and a tablecloth and I must look like the biggest rube ever to fly taking pictures and grinning ear-to-ear like I just won the flipping lottery. It's like I've never even seen a plane before. It's no surprise that the guy next to me gave me the side eye an hour ago and is pretending not to speak English.

I was sitting in my coach seat when the flight attendant came to my seat, and, addressing me using the very proper sounding "Ms. McClure" (is my stepmother in the row behind me?), told me that I had been given a seat up front. It must be a good omen for what I'm sure is going to be an anxious few weeks for me, right? But here's the thing, I can't help but remember the other times I've been unexpectedly upgraded on my out-bound flights and how those trips kind of blew up in my face.