Free Confessions of a Hostie by Danielle Hugh

I am actually struggling to find the one item I thought would be the easiest to find. I find plenty of paper-thin socks, but I don’t see a pair of winter socks until …
    I see a pair of Christmas-themed socks, and they are the only pair of thick socks in this store. No, these are not beautiful socks with a subtle motif of mistletoe and snowflakes. These are socks that are so loud and gaudy they should come with a volume control and a pair of sunglasses.
    Oh well, I might as well get into the Christmas spirit. I wish again that I could home for the holidays, well-dressed and my family.
    Family? That reminds me. I have to let my family know that I’m not coming home.
    Thank goodness for text messaging. I let my family and friends know my utter disappointment at being away (yet again) for Christmas. This is probably the hardest thing about my job, being away for Christmas, for birthdays, for Valentine’s Day, for Easter, for weddings and, of course, all parties.
    It has just dawned on me that for the first time in almost twenty years I won’t be able to deliver my Christmas hampers to the nursing homes, and my presents for my nieces and nephews will now have to be given to them sometime in the New Year.
    If I can make it home for New Year, that is. Who knows where they’ll send me for New Year’s Eve.
    I was planning to be in New York this year. To be a part of the celebration at Times Square and watch the ball drop. I’ve been waiting for years and years to do that. Now that’s not going to happen.
    â€˜Expletive, expletive, expletive’ again. And over and over again.
    I go back to my room and although the sands in my get-ready-for-work hourglass have run out, this time I do throw myself on the bed and cry like a baby.

ho ho freakin’ ho!
    As ‘Air Crash Investigations’ plays on in the background, I fasten the last button on my uniform with so much anger that I nearly rip the buttonhole. I hate going to work angry. I know nothing good ever comes of it. Yet, I can’t help my frustration.
    Maybe it is a great crew? Maybe the hotel in Frankfurt will put on a big Christmas bash for us? Maybe all this bad timing might turn into something life-changing?
    Maybe I should stop trying to kid myself?
    I go down to the hotel’s foyer and greet my new crew.
    Gee, they look young.
    With the most senior flight attendants sent home for Christmas (like I should have been), the most junior ones are being sent out to work.
    The boss looks like he’s about twelve, and he is the oldest on the crew. Except for me, that is.
    Some of them do sympathise with my circumstances. Several even notice I am the only one without a suitcase and put two and two together, figuring out quickly that I’ve been turned around suddenly and that I might not have many warm clothes with me.
    I turn my attention to the miserable human being that fell sick, thus placing me in this predicament.
    â€˜Who went sick?’ I ask.
    Someone replies, ‘Gabrielle.’ Several of the crew roll their eyes at this.
    â€˜Not Gabrielle Reiner?’
    Several nod.
    Instinctively, I want to find her and gouge her eyes out. But what if she is genuinely sick, I wonder.
    â€˜Is she OK?’ I ask to be sure.
    The boss replies, ‘She has pulled the old back-pain routine and is going home tonight.’
    â€˜So, let me get this right – she is sick with something that will still allow her to travel, so she will be playing passenger and going home while I fill in for her. And she will get to be home for Christmas?’
    The crew give knowing smirks and nods of affirmation.
    My anger, which had been directed toward the company at first, has now shifted to Gabrielle. Somewhere, somehow, I will get back at that princess, I resolve. I will never forget or forgive her for this. The thirteen-hour flight to Frankfurt is non-eventful, yet the smallest things seem to drive me wild. I am still professional