At 24, I returned to my dream of being a flight attendant. I applied to glamorous airlines — and was turned down for various reasons: too tall (Qantas), too wide at the hips (Western), insufficient fluency in French and Spanish (Pan Am), chubby knees (Braniff attendants wore hot pants and go-go boots), too shy (United), and freckles (TWA preferred clear skin).

Eventually, I applied to the regional airline where my father worked as a captain. After so many rejections, I was astonished to be hired on the spot. (I confess: I didn’t tell the interviewer about the family connection, but he guessed — it was a small airline back then, and he recognized the last name. That probably helped.)

It was everything I had dreamed of — and more. OK, it wasn’t Paris to Rome with an overnight in a five-star hotel in Athens. It was Seattle to Las Vegas, sometimes with an overnight in a motel behind the hotel (because the hotel was full). The rooms had mirrors on the ceiling and were usually rented by the hour.

I didn’t care about the destinations. I loved being airborne — and the challenge of serving meals and drinks to 103 people, all of whom needed the restroom during meal service, while smiling, never sneezing, keeping the peace, and staying ready with our crash-course knowledge of emergency management.

Yes — being a flight attendant was heaven. And I loved every turbulent minute.