You saved up all your money, lived on Saltines and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese while you paid for all the school you have to go through and that mild Asthma you have becomes severe from all the stress and fumes from the planes. You don’t pass your medical exam. You wallow over a luxurious steak dinner that you can finally afford, seasoned expertly by the salt of your own tears. Thank your lucky stars you got a BA.

You graduated from ground school and now you’re out of cash. The cost of that flying fuel is way more expensive than that car fuel you’re always using and that still costs a pretty penny—you could even say it was a drop-dead gorgeous penny. You figured out that, with the license you’ve already received, you would be able to be a bush pilot to log some of your necessary flight hours and still be allowed to have an open bank account. You are a bush pilot for 25 years and just never really get out of it. Turns out, you love the thrill. You’re way too bad (in a good way) for that cushy-American Airlines job. You now rock hard forever.

You worked for a regional airline for a decade, flying back and forth from the most boring cities in the country. Major airlines were just not looking for a new pilot—until they were and they finally accepted your application!! You walked into the airline feeling fresh to death and bode your time, paying your dues as second in command at a major airline. You’re 45 now, though, and you’re sick of taking orders! You march into that office and are about to angrily demand a captain position when your boss interrupts you telling you Ol’ Greyhorn just retired. You’re the captain on the next flight to Partytown, USA (You’re going to New Jersey).

You had some funding help and got to go to one of those super fancy ground schools that are affiliated with a major airline, so you’re the first place they go to when they’re looking for fresh meat (in other words, you’re a shoe-in). You complete your hours, send in that application with a wink and a smile and they like your spunk. Presto—you’re working for that major airline that gives out complimentary biscotti at 36.

Ground school was a breeze and you’re basically showered with confetti (metaphorical confetti—in reality, it is a contract with a major airline) the second you land after your 1,500 airborne-hour. Five years down the line, you’re doing a routine flight to New Orleans and one of your engines fails. You can hear the panic of the travelers behind you and, even though you know that if that second engine fails, you’re all toast, you never lose your cool. You come on the speaker: “This is your captain speaking: it sounds and feels like the plane is falling apart, but, don’t worry, I’ve got this.” You maneuver your way into an emergency landing and end up in a field somewhere saving everyone except for a bunch of unlucky corn crops. You are a national hero because the plane was full of famous and universally adored humans.