I was trying to catch up on sleep during the flight when a flight attendant nudged me awake. “Ma’am, I noticed you didn’t order a meal. Are you feeling unwell?” I shook my head. “Just tired.

I’m going to sleep, no meal for me, thanks.” But ten minutes later, the same flight attendant woke me up again. “Are you sure? We have a wide variety of meal options.” I waved her away. “Please, I just really need to sleep.

I’m not eating.” I’d just managed to drift off again when, through a hazy fog, I found myself staring into the same pair of concerned eyes. “If you’re not eating, could you please take a moment to fill out this survey and let us know why?” she asked, her voice impossibly cheerful. “And you can’t just check the boxes.

The written feedback helps us provide better service in the future.”

1 An allnighter, then a flight for a business trip. Tray table down, seatbelt buckled. For a corporate drone like me, the roar of the plane taking off was my sweet lullaby, a personal invitation to dreamland. This client was a real piece of work.

The night before my flight, they were still asking for the impossible—the equivalent of ‘technicolor black.’ Luckily, after a caffeinefueled marathon, I’d finally delivered something that made them happy.

A threehour flight isn’t long, but it was just enough for me to get some deep, immersive sleep. To avoid being disturbed during meal service, I had prepared a sticky note while waiting at the gate. I slapped it onto the seatback in front of me.

Bright yellow paper, bold red marker. “PLEASE DO NOT WAKE ME FOR MEAL SERVICE. THANK YOU.” Normally, I wouldn't be so extra, but being ripped from a desperately needed sleep is a special kind of torture. My eyelashes fluttered shut, and I was gone.

But before I could even start to drool peacefully, a warm touch on my arm pulled me back. A soft, feminine voice whispered close to my ear. “Ma’am, what would you like for your meal?” I waved a weary hand toward the note I’d posted.

But the voice didn’t go away. In fact, it got louder. “We have the Beef with Broccoli or the Chicken Teriyaki. Which would you prefer?” “Ma’am? Ma’am?” Her calls pierced through the fog of my exhaustion. I forced my eyes open. “No, thank you.

I’m not eating.” Forcing a sleepdeprived wage slave to form a coherent sentence is cruel, but I reminded myself that she was just doing her job. One cog in the machine shouldn’t make life harder for another.

It’s a golden rule I’ve learned since I started working. My eyelids felt like lead. I snuggled against the headrest, hoping for a seamless transition back to sleep.

But a second later, her voice was back. “Are you absolutely sure, ma’am?” she pressed. “The meals on this route get rave reviews online.

Lots of influencers have posted about them.” For God’s sake, was this meal box filled with ambrosia from Mount Olympus? Was it a mortal sin to refuse it? “Thank you, but I’m really not hungry.

I just want to sleep,” I said, my voice strained. “And you don’t need to ask me again. Please.” I pointed to the note again, then fumbled in my pocket for my earbuds and put them in.

This threepronged rejection—verbal, physical, and visual—didn’t bring me peace.

Instead, the flight attendant knelt beside my seat, adopting a tone of sincere concern that was loud enough for the whole section to hear. “It’s okay, ma’am,” she said sweetly. “The meal is included with your ticket.

There’s no extra charge, so you don’t need to worry about the cost.” That did it. I was fully awake now. Furious. “I told you I want to sleep. I told you not to wake me.

Why do you keep hovering over me asking the same question again and again?” I snapped, my voice low but sharp. “And now you’re bringing up money? With a mind like that, you’re wasted as a flight attendant.

You should be writing viral soap opera skits; you’d get a billion views overnight.” “Go.

Please, just go.” I pressed my hands together in a desperate prayer, then turned away and squeezed my eyes shut, determined to salvage what little time I had left.

But a moment later, she stood up, her voice choked with emotion. “Ma’am, are you not feeling well? I apologize. I was only trying to show my concern.” “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

2 I wasn’t a ma’am. I was a punching bag. A corporate drone enslaved by my boss, and now, a monkey in a zoo for everyone to gawk at. I opened my eyes and slowly scanned my surroundings.

Even through the haze of exhaustion, I could feel the hot, judgmental stares from every direction. “Oh, come on, give the girl a break. Being a flight attendant isn’t easy.” “Yeah, what’s with the attitude?

So aggressive.” “Maybe she’s just jealous the flight attendant is prettier than her and wants to give her a hard time.” They weren’t just looking; they were talking. And none of it was pleasant. I rubbed my aching neck and took a deep breath.

Ignoring the tearyeyed flight attendant, I turned my gaze to the couple who had been the loudest. I didn’t say a word. I just stared.

As long as they kept talking, this “hardworking” flight attendant would have to keep standing in front of “aggressive” me. It’s called pressure transfer. A favorite tactic of my boss during meetings. I’d learned from the master.

It worked like a charm. Soon, the flight attendant, and the other passengers who had been enjoying the show, all turned their heads to stare at the couple. The two of them exchanged a nervous glance and quickly looked down.

With the external threat neutralized, it was time to deal with the internal one. I slowly lifted my head to look at the flight attendant. She blinked her redrimmed eyes at me, a picture of innocence.

You would think I was a wicked hunter and she was the helpless fawn I’d cornered. Finally realizing I wasn’t going to be an easy target, she spoke, her voice thick with misery. “Ma’am, I am so sorry.

I was only trying to provide the best service possible.” She sniffled. “I’m still on probation… please, could you just give me a chance? Please don’t file a complaint. I promise I’ll be more careful in the future.” An apology was enough.

No need to push it. Despite the knot of anger still in my stomach, I just shook my head. “It’s fine. I won’t report you. We’re all just trying to get by.” “I just want to sleep.

Please, don’t wake me up again for anything—meals, whatever—until we land,” I pleaded. “Seriously. Thank you.” Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice… This time, I watched her walk all the way to the other end of the plane before I let my head fall back against the seat. The unpleasant interruption was finally over.

If I didn’t get some sleep now, I’d be nodding off like a bobblehead in the afternoon meeting. All my hard work on the ‘technicolor black’ project, all my effort, my commission—it would all go up in smoke. But sleep, once broken, is a slippery thing.

After several minutes of deep breathing and counting sheep, it finally started to creep back. Just as a blissful haze began to settle over me, a sharp sting on my arm jolted me awake. I gasped, my eyes flying open.

The first thing I saw was the sharp corner of a piece of printer paper.

The flight attendant was back, and she was earnestly holding a pen out to me. “Ma’am, if you’re not eating, could you please take a moment to fill out this survey and provide a detailed reason why?”

3 I looked from the fresh red line on my arm to the densely printed questionnaire now sitting on my tray table. It was sweltering in the cabin, and sweat seeped into the fresh papercut, making it burn.

A fire ignited inside me, and my anger was so intense my tongue felt tied in a knot. As I struggled to find the words, the flight attendant leaned in, instructing me with meticulous care. “Please don’t just fill out the multiplechoice section.

Be sure to write detailed comments in the space provided,” she said. “It’s for our internal review, so we can provide you with better service next time.” My tongue finally untangled itself, but my brain felt like it had shortcircuited.

My only request was to be left alone to sleep. Why was she so determined to keep waking me up? If I were sitting in an emergency exit row, I’d force myself to stay awake and fulfill my duty. But I was just a regular passenger. No meal, no survey.

That’s it. Seeing my stunned silence, a flicker of impatience crossed her face, but her smile only grew wider and more cloying. “Ma’am, is there a problem?

Do you perhaps need assistance with the form?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “We can provide it in English if you’d prefer.” Before my exhausted brain could even process the insult, she leaned closer and began translating without missing a beat. “Dear passenger, thank you for your cooperation…” Her accent was flawless.

Honestly, on any other day, I might have been impressed. But right now, my patience was completely gone. “You want feedback? Fine. Here’s your feedback.” I snatched the pen she was offering and drew a huge, violent X across the questionnaire.

I pressed so hard the pen ripped straight through the paper. “Ma’am, you…” The sudden turn of events left her gaping, her smooth English recitation cut short.

Before she could recover, I whipped out my phone and took a quick picture of the survey and her shocked face. I took back what I said before. A complaint. The second I finished this business trip, I was filing a complaint.

I’d flown hundreds of times and never encountered anyone so bizarre. “You can go now,” I said, my voice cold. “Save yourself the trouble of struggling through a conversation in English with me.

And don’t bother with your ‘internal review.’ I will never be flying with your airline again.” My words were blunt.

I crumpled the survey into a ball and shoved it into the waste bag, ignoring the way her smile slowly froze and then shattered. “Ma’am, I am truly sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “Please don’t let my personal mistake affect the entire crew’s performance review.

You can do whatever you want to me, but my colleagues are innocent. Please don’t take your emotions out on them. Adults should be able to manage their feelings maturely, not…” Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought to keep them from falling.

Her voice was a perfect blend of grievance and righteousness. The waste bag in my hand was crushed into a deformed lump. Wait, when did I say anything about reporting the whole crew? Was I some medieval tyrant practicing collective punishment?

Breathe in, breathe out. I looked at the flight attendant, who was now putting on a full waterworks display in front of me. Communication is truly a minefield. With someone this strange, the best approach was simply to ignore her.

With that thought, I pulled out my laptop. Sleep was a lost cause, so I might as well review my presentation. The next second, a stream of scalding hot coffee flooded my keyboard.

As the brown liquid seeped between the keys, I lunged for my bag to find some tissues. But before I could grab them, a heavy coffee pot hovered directly over my arm, blocking my way. “I’m so sorry! I was just trying to pour you a coffee to apologize…”

4 “I’m so sorry! I was just trying to pour you a coffee to apologize.” “Please don’t be angry. I’ll get you a fresh cup right away.” “Please, please, please don’t report our crew…” Her voice buzzed in my ears, a relentless drone.

I wearily lifted my head and looked at her. She was clutching the coffee pot with both hands, her eyes downcast like a child who had misbehaved.

A thick stack of lifesaving napkins sat on the service cart right next to her, but she acted as if they were invisible. “Could you please move your arm so I can get some tissues to clean my keyboard?” I asked, my voice flat with exhaustion.

At this point, all I could do was try to save my laptop. I didn't have the energy to deal with anything else. The sticky coffee dried on my dark clothes. I managed to wipe the keyboard mostly clean.

I was a mess, but at least my most critical piece of equipment was safe. I slumped back in my seat and glanced at the time on my screen. Another ninety minutes until landing. A broken, fragmented nap was out of the question.

I decided to go to the restroom and wash my face. I unbuckled my seatbelt and started to stand up. In that instant, a whole torrent of coffee poured down over my head. Drip. Drip. Drip. It ran down my hair, soaking my bra and shirt.

I froze, stunned into stillness, a walking, dripping coffee monster. “What the hell…” The sticky, wet sensation all over my body, combined with the thought of my tight schedule after landing, finally made my temper snap.

The exhaustion was replaced by pure, unadulterated rage. I squeezed the coffee from the ends of my hair and shot a death glare at the flight attendant.

Before I could speak, she set down the coffee pot and looked at me with open displeasure. “Ma’am, I have already apologized to you,” she said coolly. “You can be upset with me, but this is a public space. Please watch your language.” I’m sorry?

We were speaking the same language, but I suddenly couldn’t understand a single word she was saying.

Remembering the photos on my phone, I choked down my anger, carefully maneuvering out of my seat to avoid getting coffee on anything else, and walked to the restroom. The cool water on my face helped a little.

My plan: get my checked bag as soon as we land, find a restroom in the airport, and change. I had a sealed bag for dirty laundry. I could send the clothes to the hotel’s laundry service.

As for my hair… maybe I could find a salon near the client’s office and get a quick wash. With a clear plan of action, I dried myself off as best I could. The moment I pushed open the restroom door, I was met by two eager faces. “Hello, ma’am.

I’m the purser for this flight,” the older woman said with a wide smile. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”