I realized this as I struggled to get my carry-ons into the airplane's first-class cabin. They knew I wasn't supposed to be here.

I had upgraded to first class. I owed it to myself -- and to my aging dog, Poncho, who was coming with me to Los Angeles. A six-hour flight was worth 10,000 frequent-flier miles; we were going to go in style.

Just whose style, exactly, I was beginning to wonder.

"You really should have checked that," the flight attendant, a stern woman I immediately named Brunhild, sniffed at my collapsible luggage wheels. My camera bag, laptop and dog carrier already were piled onto all the seats surrounding me.

They knew. They knew I was a coach-class wolf in upgraded sheep's clothing -- with coach-class carry-on, to boot.

I sat down in the large leather seat. Beside me, a well-groomed woman, younger than me but with decidedly more expensive
lipstick, sat reading The Wall Street Journal. She did not smile sympathetically as I breathed a sigh of exhaustion. Nor did she smile at Poncho, whose head was sticking up through the unzipped portion of his carrier.

I sat uncomfortably and looked around the cabin. Most of the seats were empty.

"Excuse me," I asked Brunhild. "Can I move to an empty row if nobody comes by?"

"We are totally full," she snapped. "This flight never leaves with anything open in first class. Perhaps," she offered viciously, "there might be some in coach." The last word hung in the rarefied air.

I sat down, patted Poncho on the head, tried to blend in. An elderly man came on board; the flight attendant cooed, "Oh, Mr. So-and-So. How ARE you?" They chatted sotto voce in the aisle; she put her hand warmly on his shoulder. Another flight attendant came by with a hanger for his suit jacket. Did this guy commute to L.A. or what?

It seemed that the flight attendants knew almost everyone up here in first. Everyone except me.

The plane was ready for takeoff. Three rows in the back were empty. I grabbed Poncho and muttered something to my still-reading seatmate about not having to put up with dog fur, and re-ensconced myself in the back. Brunhild noticed me out of the corner of her eye but said nothing.

Once aloft, the flight attendants came by with the breakfast menus. "Do you know what you want?" Brunhild demanded. I told her I'd ordered a vegetarian meal. She looked momentarily shocked.

"Did you upgrade?" she asked loudly.

"Yes, but I ordered it beforehand," I whispered. "I ... I can take the coach meal, if that's what you've got."

"I'll check," Brunhild said, marching off.

Upgraded. Used to be you were upgraded because people wanted to treat you nicely, make you feel warm toward their company, make you feel respected. Today, with the advent of frequent-flier miles, you can upgrade YOURSELF. Which has, apparently, defeated the whole purpose of upgrading.

"What would you like to drink?" The nicer flight attendant was standing in the aisle with a cart full of bottles. "Wine, beer, Perrier, coffee?" I knew I'd better order the Perrier for the sake of my image. I hate Perrier.

Brunhild had found my meatless breakfast shortly before they came by with a fruit and cheese cart with wines. I ordered cheese for the dog and figured I'd better order some port for my image. Port? Did first-class people really drink port at 10 a.m.? I had a sip from the elegant, shapely glass. The aroma banged noisily against my olfactories, unused to such refinement.

They took away my place setting, and I looked out the window. The clouds looked the same from this window as they did from behind the partition. When the plane landed, the flight attendants hurriedly fetched my wheels and shuttled me off the plane. I regrouped at the gate, sinking back into comfortable coach mode.

At the Avis rental counter, I stepped up to the counter, smiled compassionately at the harried attendant and gave my name.

"Oh, nice car," the rental agent cooed. She looked at me, impressed. I smiled in a low-key, first-class kind of way I had seen somewhere before. I was emptying my bank account to drive a convertible -- another treat for Poncho and me.

I sniffed regally, plucked the keys from her outstretched hand, brushed a bit of dog fur off my shirt, and we marched off. Poncho's tail, I noticed, was up extra high.

First class is, after all, an attitude.