I don’t travel for business much these days, and certainly vacation excursions are only booked after consulting every online super saver fare offer possible, so the likelihood of landing a First Class airline seat has not been something I have given much thought to.

But this past week, I was asked to travel to New Hampshire with the VP of a marketing company I contract with to help deliver a client presentation where I had been the primary researcher. While happy for the opportunity to enhance my value with the company, my initial reaction to the travel itinerary for the day, a no luggage required, in and out trip, was far from upbeat.

“A six AM flight to Boston? You mean I need to get to O’Hare by 5:00?”

I might joke that the simple solution for early morning obligations is to sleep faster, but I was not too thrilled with the scenario of waking up at 3:45, especially when, typically, lights out in my bedroom occurs around midnight.

Without the need to pack anything besides my presentation binder and a few New Yorkers that I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet, I navigated through a light rain down a traffic-free expressway and actually arrived at the airport before 5:00 AM. I parked in short-term parking, a small luxury afforded business travelers, and strutted towards the check-n kiosks, eager to get a boarding pass then find a Micky D’s for some sort of combo breakfast meal before take-off.

Maybe things were flowing too smoothly. This thought occurred to me while I struggled to coax my boarding pass from one of those R2-D2 looking check-in machines that filled the front of the United terminal. After three tries, I gave up and stood in a line for problem check-ins. I got my boarding pass, noted the gate, then stumbled with hordes of other sleep deprived passengers through security. I quickly snarfed down the McDonald’s breakfast I promised myself and walked to the gate at 5:30, just as boarding was about to begin. I looked at my boarding pass for the first time. My seat was “1A.”

First Class. Front row. Apparently, since my travel companion had more than a few miles on his frequent flyer program and the tickets were booked on his credit card, I got to sit in the bulkhead, a totally novel perspective for a flight. I had more legroom than I ever imagined existing on a commercial plane. Fully stretched out (okay, I am only 5’4”), my legs couldn’t even touch the dividing wall.

I got to look out the window as we pulled away from the gate. Hmmm. Leather, extra-wide seats, a stewardess to share with only a few other souls, knowing that I would be among the first off the plane after landing. In outlandishly languid motions, I withdrew a magazine from the canvas bag by my feet. Oh, I wanted my body to memorize the sensations of traveling in comfort. I tried to tell myself that more first class travel could be in my future, that I shouldn’t expect air travel to be hurried, uncivil, or uncomfortable.

We pulled away from the gate on time and got into the air only a few minutes later. The stewardess brought out coffee and offered cold drinks and tea then asked me if I wanted cereal or a breakfast sandwich. I blinked at her like she must be on drugs. Then I remembered I was sitting in a different cabin in the sky. Even though my Micky D breakfast was still sloshing around in my stomach, I had a second breakfast; a greaseless sausage and egg sandwich and bowl of fresh, did I say fresh, fruit.

I retrieved and returned reading material from my bag several times during the flight. Every twenty minutes or so, I tried to touch my toes against the panel wall in front of me. My traveling companion was asleep, completely undisturbed by my activities. I had to smile to myself, or, if I was smiling outwardly, I was smiling for myself.

I was swimming in extra space — in front of me and on each side. What can I say? I felt like a rock star. Sometimes, a couple extra inches is no small thing.