If you’ve been feeling smug about your priority check-in and that platinum discount card — here’s your dose of reality

Do you own memberships to exclusive things? Does a tiny smirk escape your lips every time you join the priority boarding queue? Do you pride yourself on having attained some form of platinum level or another? And have you recently signed up for some card or service that gets you discounts at hotels, or free drinks at bars? Well then, my so-and-so, you’re as far from ‘having arrived’ as that guy who never started.

The thing about life is that it’s mostly meaningless. And suffering. In a bid to make sense of it all, some shrewd slick came up with the idea of individuality. Not like the human race had a choice, for nobody will ever love you or care for you like yourself. Clearly the notion of intricate, interdependent social structures is precisely that, a notion.

However, if for a moment, we let ourselves believe that individuality is the essence of living, then nothing underlines one’s self more than the concept of privilege; a system that grants us social immunity and yet allows us to proclaim that in a world of equals, I am more equal than you. Don’t tut-tut me, if you just had someone bring you a glass of water while reading this at home, you just flaunted privilege.

But you don’t have to prove your superior existence to your slaves, sorry, I meant, your serfs.

Privilege is meant for standing out in social circles, where it’s important to be seen as peers only once you’ve clearly demonstrated how much better off than the rest you really are.

In that sense, privilege is a paradox; a glory hole of limitless curiosities. People vie all their lives for it, sucking up to bosses with more sincerity than in their relationships, buying expensive watches and holidays, all to subtly, yet markedly, impress their prioritised position on others. People don’t check into a business lounge, it’s just a desperate cry to the world to check out their ‘privileged’ status.

In truth, privilege is like sex —if you have to pay for it, then clearly you weren’t getting any in the natural course of things. (Some may argue that sex is like lunch in that neither are ever free, but that’s fodder for another Epiphoney.) Priority check-ins exist for people who don’t own planes. Discount cards are for those who have limited spending power. And flashing membership to holiday clubs is so crass, even trying to scoff at it makes me feel guttural.

So what is one to do? Don’t cancel your memberships just yet; for some, frequent flyer miles are all they’ll ever amass. And dandruff. If this were a preachy column I’d possibly provide a solution here. Thankfully, I carry no such burden. Just like those maps in malls with that giant red dot stating, ‘You Are Here’, this was to remind you your place in life.

As a parting Kōan: if you have all the keys to the palace, that just makes you the janitor, not the owner. So the next time you walk in through a door, look back. If nobody else is behind you, that’s you, arriving. Else, you’re just an underprivileged doorman.

This column is for anyone who gives an existential toss