Dear Centurion, I Heart You

Although I've mentioned it before, I was waiting for something interesting to happen before blogging about my new love -- the Amex Centurion card.

I'd like to preface this by stating that I did not meet the spending requirements (nor did I even come remotely close) to get a black card, but I did get my own card due to the benevolence of one Dr. T, who (insanely) did meet the requirement. He leads a very hard life.

I have definitely enjoyed the perks of the Centurion. I've called on the Centurion concierge to get dinner reservations at places that are booked or to avoid having to wait in line. And I've definitely taken advantage of the "elite" status on almost every airline. About a year ago, I had never been in the President's Club. About 4 months ago, I had never flown first class. All of that has changed now. Sitting in coach is miserable (despite the fact that I have plenty of leg room) and waiting in the regular terminal conjures up images of what THC went through at the Herat airport in Afghanistan. Once you go black, you can never go back.

Perks aside, the only disappointing thing so far has been cashiers' casual reactions to me handing over the card. Sometimes they look at it (because it's titanium) because they are not sure whether it will slide in the card reader. But other than that, it's been a ho-hum experience in every day use.

UNTIL LAST NIGHT! THC has been out of town all week, and last night was the first time I was on my own for dinner. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity by treating myself to the one food THC refuses to eat: chicken wings. Or as I like to call them, chicken wangs.

So, I pull into BW-3, order my 12 spicy wangs, and hand over my Amex to the teenage cashier. I hand it over and she does a double take, asking me, "Is this what I think it is?" I reply, in my best c'mon-play-it-cool-you-big-nerd voice, "Yeah." At which point the girl starts whooping and hollering and calling all of the guys from back in the kitchen to look at it and hold it. Amidst all of the commotion, they were all staring at me, speculating at my identity and wondering if I was "somebody."

Of course, I got in full character, pretending to be that "somebody" they wanted me to be. For a split second, I WAS the Korean Britney Spears I had always imagined myself to be. But then I snapped out of it, remembering that I am not a pop princess, but a 31-year old geek lawyer. I grabbed my bag of wangs and drove home in my little used station wagon, where I spent the rest of my evening sitting on my couch watching the Olympics with my 2 paparazzo friends, Harley & Emma.