The flimsy blue curtain dangled loose from its Velcro snap.  I caught a glimpse of the other side as it swayed with the turbulence.  Between waves of blanket blue, I spied warm peanuts and champagne.

The curtain separated two classes.

Economy.  Why not just call it regular?  Or cattle?  Either way, the curtain seemed to define it.  Well that and my cheap bag of pretzels and plastic cup of water.

I could see curtains in other parts of my life.  Flimsy messages that I’m too young, too old, too early, too late, to do this or to do that.  I looked at my manuscript and saw an iron curtain between written and read.  It was a message: this is your station, best to buckle in.

I ignored the message.  Even curtains made from iron fall.  And that’s not just peanuts.

Truth is, every once and I while I get an…