Things I Claimed on My Taxes as a Flight Attendant That Wouldn't Fly in Any Other Job

Every spring, like everyone else in the U.S., I'd sit down with my crappy laptop and open the H & R Block website and try to figure out how to pay as little tax as legally possible on the approximately twelve dollars and change Delta had paid me that year.

I'm exaggerating, but only slightly.

My first year as a flight attendant, I made a little over $16,000. That's not a typo. You can literally see it on my Social Security earnings statement (side note: did you know you can see all the yearly earnings you have ever made?! I included that link because I learned recently)

I spent seven weeks in training, and didn't start actually flying until May of 2008, and then spent the rest of the year enthusiastically and urgently working my ass off while somehow remaining astonishingly poor. There were times I couldn't afford to eat, so I would schedule myself on a trip that guaranteed crew meals.

As a result of the very low income, tax season became an annual scavenger hunt for deductions. You would be surprised what was considered an allowable deduction for my industry.

So many pairs of pantyhose were deducted on my taxes, and I remember being so anxious about being audited and having to find all those receipts. I'm not going to claim I was diligent about keeping them, and I bought SO MANY pairs every year. And they were like, $6.99 a pair, at least!

I was twenty-something years old, couldn't afford an accountant, and was operating entirely on the basis of a tax software questionnaire that asked whether I had purchased uniform items that were "required for work and not suitable for everyday wear."

Reader, there is not a single circumstance under which I would voluntarily wear pantyhose.

Delta required them as part of the uniform, and those fricking demons had a lifespan roughly equivalent to a soap bubble.

They snagged on broken fingernails.

They snagged on healthy fingernails.

They snagged on beverage carts.

They snagged on jump seats.

They snagged on mysterious sharp objects that existed nowhere except inside airport security.

Sometimes I would swear they developed runs out of pure spite.

If I wasn't poking a hole through them while getting dressed, I was somehow finding the only exposed piece of Velcro within a hundred-yard radius. I don't know about anyone else's experience, but I went through an absurd number of pairs. Twenty-seven pairs in my first year was my count.

Of course, I was buying the cheapest pantyhose available because that's what I could afford. Years later I learned there are higher-end brands with thicker denier fabric that actually survive contact with the modern world. Apparently dancers and Europeans had already solved this problem.

Unfortunately, the good ones cost actual money. I did not have money, and I couldn't guarantee getting a flight to Europe to find those coveted good pairs.

The same thing happened with shoes. I was able to write those off on my taxes, too.

Flight attendants spend an incredible amount of time on their feet. Airport terminals. Jet bridges. Aircraft aisles. Hotel hallways. Repeat forever. You already know this.

Did you also know that we were required to wear heels in the concourse and could only change into flat shoes once the door closed on the flight? Did I break that rule sometimes while the aircraft door was still open and I was working in the back? Yes. (And I'd do it again)

On a side note, I'm currently rehabilitating my ankles after rolling both ankles badly in the last year, along with having tendinitis in both feet. I firmly assign the blame for the tendinitis to six years walking (sometimes running!) in heels in concourses. I also frequently wish I could go back in time and introduce myself to SuperFeet for my on-board shoes.

A better-paid, savvier person would have invested in high-quality shoes with proper arch support. I bought whatever was available at DSW in the $50 price range. As a result, I burned through shoes at a pace that probably should have qualified as a safety concern.

I remember a moment in my third year when a senior mama finally heard a weird clicking sound coming from my heels in a large, quiet concourse and said: "Girl. Get yourself to a cobbler."

A cobbler. I genuinely did not know cobblers still existed. I only knew about them from old german fairy tales! Apparently, as I learned that day, you can replace the tips of your heels instead of replacing the entire shoe. This information would have saved me both money and dignity. (I'm sad about the many pairs of shoes I gave up on because I didn't know they could be fixed.)

Naturally, I claimed those shoes (and cobbler fixes) on my taxes too.

Then there were tips. Not the shoe tips, but cash money tips.

One of the things nobody explains when you're new is how much tipping is built into airline life. In particular, hotel housekeepers and shuttle van drivers.

The van drivers especially were a constant presence. They'd pick us up at the airport, haul our luggage into the shuttle, drive us to the hotel, then do the entire process in reverse the next morning at some ungodly hour.

The customary tip was at least a dollar. Most days that doesn't sound like much. When you're making first-year-flight-attendant money, sometimes a dollar feels like a luxury item.

There were absolutely days when I dragged my own suitcase because I genuinely couldn't spare the cash. Occasionally a captain or senior mama would quietly cover the tip for me. It was a small kindness, but one I never forgot. Looking back, I wish I'd known more about the tax code.

Maybe there were other deductions available to airline crews that I completely missed. Maybe there were smarter strategies. Maybe there was an entire underground network of veteran flight attendants swapping tax tips between trips to Cincinnati and Salt Lake City. If there was, nobody invited me.

I guess I was too busy buying replacement pantyhose.

What strikes me in retrospect is how different the public perception of the job was compared to the reality. People often imagine flight attendants living glamorous lives, jetting around the world and sipping champagne in exotic destinations.

The reality for many junior flight attendants is a lot less glamorous. It's ramen noodles in a hotel room intead of eating in the hotel bar. It's worn-out shoes with the metal breaking through the plastic heel tips. It's deciding whether you can afford to tip the van driver.

It's claiming pantyhose on your taxes because replacing them became a not-insignificant line item in your annual budget. (27 pairs at roughly $7 a pair is $189!!)

The travel was incredible. The people were unforgettable. The experiences shaped my life in ways I'm still discovering. But was it glamorous? Babe, I was deducting hosiery.