This column is not for those who are flying around the globe, dining at fancy restaurants on expense accounts, returning from trips and saying things like, "Boy, you should see Beijing at this time of year." It's for the ones making dinner, getting the kids to school, waiting around for the plumber who should have been there over an hour ago to fix the toilet.

This column is not for those who are on the go, in the world, out and about. This column is for those back at home mired in so many conflicts that they have to choose between which school meetings to attend, which kids' games to make, which evenings out to miss.

This column is not for the Road Warriors. It is for the ones left behind.

Hey, I know this is a special issue dedicated to the Road Warrior. And I know that without the Road Warrior, I wouldn't have an airline magazine to write for. But the Road Warrior will get plenty of tender loving care throughout the rest of this issue. How about a little resentment?

The Road Warriors get to tell stories of What Happened and What It Looked Like and What They Did While They Were There, as if perpetually answering the question, "What did you do on your summer vacation?" "Well, I'm in Paris, right? And I am meeting with this guy, and he's saying blah, blah, blah, and I tell him, Hey, pal. Who do you think you're dealing with here? And you shoulda seen his face. So I know I got him. All I can think is, Coupla more hours and it's me, some Champagne, and the City of Light, know what I mean?"

Those left behind shovel information. They relay the news about the lawn guy not edging like you told him 1,000 times and about the car making a funny sound and about the dry cleaner's inability to get the small stain out of that favorite shirt.

The Road Warriors get to go to places­ like Venice. The closest those left behind get to Italy is half-price-spaghetti night down at Tony's Ristorante.