Row 9 and the Champagne Problems I Didn’t Know I Had

For most of my adult life, I’ve believed that checking in for a flight exactly 24 hours ahead was the airline equivalent of putting on Deodorant—basic, necessary, and shameful if you forget. I’ve treated it like gospel. Like the travel gods would smite me with middle seats and sticky tray tables if I missed that magic window.

Until today.

Because today, We didn’t check in on time. Not even close. We checked in with about 12 hours to go

And the travel gods—who must’ve been feeling generous or bored—rewarded me with Row 9. Seats A, B, and C. Somehow due to seats and the first class bulkhead Alida had two windows.

Let me back up.

Jamie, Alida, and I were flying home from San Antonio. We’d been stomping around Texas for days—dodging tourists, ducking into haunted hotels, eating questionable food from unfamiliar places and taking in all the strange charm the city had to offer. And after all that, we were cooked. We just wanted to get home without being wedged next to a crying toddler or a guy watching movies with no headphones.

So I braced for the worst. Late check-in usually means you’re about to get personally acquainted with the bathroom door and someone's elbows. Actually in hindsight this is always the seats I get.

But then—Row 9. When it showed in the app I was honestly floored

We Still Borarded Group 6, where your ticket basically says, “We’ll let you on after the cargo and emotional support iguanas.”  But We had legroom. We had windows. We weren’t packed in like sardines marinated in anxiety and travel sweat. It felt… wrong. Like we’d snuck into a nicer section by accident.

And in many ways—we had.

Now, Jamie was already a little on edge. Something about the energy of airports—the combination of TSA lines, overhead announcements, and the scent the scent of pre-flight Cinnabon—puts her nerves on high alert. I could see it in her face. Her eyes were darting. Her jaw was tight. She was already half a mental step away from “I swear, I'm not getting on this plane…”

So I did the honorable thing. I got her a double vodka at the airport bar. Not for celebration. Not for fun. For survival. For everyone’s safety. It was the emotional support drink that kept us all moving forward.

We finally boarded. Alida, who turned 21 that day, settled into her seat, looking relaxed and unbothered. She had no idea the emotional chaos her mother had just narrowly avoided thanks to a well-timed cocktail.

About twenty minutes after takeoff, I figured we’d go for round two. And, being the sentimental Stepdad I am, I looked over at Alida and said, “Hey, want a drink? First one’s on me.”

She blinked. Gave a little shrug. And said, “I’m good.”

What do you mean, you’re good? You just turned 21 today. We’re in the air. There are no rules. This is supposed to be a moment.

But she just went back to her Video or podcast or whatever peaceful Gen Z headspace she was vibing in.

So I turned back to Jamie. “You’re getting another one,” I said. It was the least I could do. I flagged down the flight attendant and asked for a vodka and a cranberry juice and asked for a vodka and a coke for myself, so she could build herself another airplane-strength double.

Then I did what any seasoned traveler would do: I reached for my wallet.

And that’s when it happened.

The flight attendant tilted his head slightly. Gave me this soft, almost pitying look.

“Sir,” he said gently. “You’re in Main Cabin Extra. The drinks are free.”

Now, I’ve flown a lot. I’ve been crammed into prop planes and delayed in Newark. I’ve been charged $9 for Chex Mix and asked to gate-check my backpack like it was a suitcase of gold. But never have I sat in a section of the plane where the drinks were free and I didn’t even realize it.

I froze.

Main Cabin Extra? What even is that? Is there a handshake I didn’t learn? A class I missed? Where was the velvet rope, the laminated card, the welcome briefing?

Turns out, that little Row 9 miracle wasn’t just better legroom—it was low-tier airline royalty. It was snacks with dignity. Drinks on the house. Slightly upgraded air. same no energy mini pretzels

And I—like a fool—was trying to pay for vodka with my poverty face on.

So yeah. Roast me.

Roast me for not knowing what Main Cabin Extra was. For assuming it was just a name they slapped on a row to make people feel special about being a little closer to the front. Roast me for buying Jamie a double at the airport when I could’ve just waited 40 minutes and had it delivered with ice and a smile. Roast me for offering my stepdaughter a drink on her 21st birthday and getting politely rejected, then trying to charge myself for something that was already included.

But mostly, roast me for this:

I’ve been doing it all wrong.

All these years, checking in at 24 hours like some rookie rule-follower, thinking I was giving myself the best shot at a good seat. And what did it get me? Row 30. Middle seat. No overhead space. bulkhead walls and non recline seats, Knee pain and spilled ginger ale.

Today We checked in late. Forgot, almost. Didn’t even think about it until we were halfway to dinner . And that’s how we got Row 9, Main Cabin Extra, free drinks, and a seat that didn’t make me question my life choices.

I don’t know if it’s dumb luck or some glitch in the matrix, but I’m not taking any chances next time. I’m abandoning the 24-hour check-in religion. I’m showing up fashionably late and letting fate seat me like the airline prince I never knew I was.

So if you see me in Row 9 again—legs out, Drink in hand, still wondering what "Main Cabin Extra" even means—just let me have my moment.

I may have offered my stepdaughter her first legal drink and gotten politely shut down. I may have bought Jamie a double at the airport when we were about to sit in the free booze section. I may have lived most of my life in Boarding Group 6-9  carrying bags I couldn’t fit and dreams I couldn’t board early.

But for one short flight, I was doing it right—by accident.

And I swear, somewhere up there, my dad was watching from the galley—arms crossed, shaking his head, muttering:

“My son doesn’t even know when he’s being upgraded. Jesus.”