EPISODE 1 THE HIGH FLYER

I returned home in February 2007 with my diploma, humbled, meek, and oozing insecurity. At least I had stuck it out.

With a forced smile on my face lest anyone know I was dying on the inside, I hit the Dublin pavements looking for employment. I was a long way from the main events of Korakuen Hall and being chased by hordes of fans.

My mother had been toiling over the decision to take a severance package from Aer Lingus, where she had worked for twenty-nine years.

Chris had taken a similar package two years earlier and she was torn between living a life of leisure with her now husband and continuing to do the job she still loved to do. And make no mistake about it, she loved it, the same way I once loved wrestling.

She was top of the food chain in flight attendant land, in both experience and position and as a cabin manager, i.e., the main eventer of flight attendants. She prided herself on creating a positive atmosphere for everyone she worked with.

“It trickles down from the top,” she preached.

Ultimately, she chose her marriage and spending time with her husband.

As she had printed up her resignation, a thought dawned on her.

“Would you like me to hand in your résumé?”

“Sure, you might as well,” I responded nonchalantly. Now bereft of my own dreams, I might as well follow hers.

I walked into my interview primped and primed, with my high heels, pearl earrings, and bright pink blazer.

Who was I?

A flight attendant, I guess.…

I got the job.

It was weird looking at myself in the same ugly green uniform I admired so much as a child when my mother wore it. When my mom donned that uniform, she was immaculate—makeup perfect, not a hair out of place, uniform fitted and crisply ironed.

My blazer was two sizes too big for me, my hair flew in several different directions, and I had never learned how to iron a damn shirt.

Despite the disheveled way in which I wore the uniform that Mom had taken such pride in, she beamed with delight, as if I were Kate Middleton about to marry the prince of England and soon we would all inherit the kingdom.

I was even trained up just in time to be on my mother’s last flight. I saw firsthand that it was true, she created a joyful atmosphere and everyone loved her. She had presence, charisma, made everyone laugh and hang on her every word. She had authority but in a kind way, the type that meant you didn’t want to let her down. It was different from how I knew her at home, as the woman I was terrified to piss off. Not because she’d be “disappointed” but because she’d be flat out scary as fuck.

I was Simba and she was the Mufasa of the flight attendant jungle, explaining, “Everything the light touches is ours.” Only I didn’t want to be king of the aviation land. I had always yearned to explore beyond the boundaries of the pride land. To “that shadowy place over there.”

Giving up her career was immensely difficult for her. She was good at it, found purpose doing it, and was a star in her field. As I watched her struggle with the loss of her career and purpose, I couldn’t help but see the similarities to how I was feeling walking away from my dreams. But I wasn’t sure she could or would see those similarities between us. We both tried to believe that wrestling was simply something I was better without.

I could see why she wanted this life for me. Being a flight attendant afforded her the ability to look after both of her children, often as the sole breadwinner. It took her on trips around the world. When she began, the position had an air of glamour, and now that she had lasted so long, she ruled the roost.

I didn’t inherit that same love of serving in the skies. It wasn’t long before the novelty of staying in hotels and going on mindless shopping trips quickly wore off and the tediousness of 3:00 am wake-up calls and obnoxious overuse of call bells squashed me like a rhino sitting on a hornbill.

When my alarm went off in the morning, my first thought was This is what’s going to kill me. I didn’t know if I was referring to the exhaustion, flying thirty-five thousand feet in the air, or living a passionless life.

For someone with such a nomadic lifestyle, the transient nature of the relationships was unsettling to me, making me feel like an outcast. Every day was a new crew, meaning arduous small talk and a reminder that I was a bit strange.

My strangeness used to be my favorite thing about me, the thing I took pride in. Now I was ashamed of it and longing to fit in. My mother’s advice to “just be normal” seemed so simple, yet damn near impossible.

I looked at everyone I worked with as a teacher on how to be normal. Everyone was privy to this knowledge and I just had to listen and act like them or think like them so that I too might become normal.

If I didn’t make a connection with my coworkers, that was my fault. I was the asshole. I was the one who lacked the general day-to-day skill of normalcy.

Or if I was ever working with an uptight senior and was having trouble endearing myself to them, I would casually drop my mom’s name and watch as they went from hostile to gushing over how wonderful my mom and Chris were, and the day got slightly easier.

One time someone had mentioned how I looked like my mother and in jest I quipped that I was “giving Aer Lingus the updated model.”

“Oh, you will never compare to your mother; we all loved her,” the woman barked back, stern faced.

Translation: “Know your role and shut your mouth, jabroni.”