I have never considered flying to be a luxurious experience, and this trip was no exception. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say that all I or anyone else on the flight from Dallas to Detroit on Christmas morning wanted was for it to be over as quickly as possible.

I had waited in the inevitable jetbridge backlog, found my seat, dutifully ignored the safety briefing, and was ready to see if I could manage an hour or so of sleep. As the plane reached cruising altitude, I — having momentarily gained the upper hand in the case of Pestritto v. airline seat — began to slip into a light doze.

In the back of my mind, I knew it was coming, but that didn't make it any more bearable. The crackle of the PA system, the monotone, forced cheerfulness of the flight attendant as he delivered the fateful words: “We’d like to take this chance to tell you about a special promotion being offered on this flight.”

For a brief instant, some small part of me considered pulling the emergency door handle. Surely the icy blast of air at 33,000 feet couldn’t be any worse than enduring the dreaded American Airlines credit card pitch.

When I arrive at the airport, I am prepared to suffer.

After this brief instant of nihilism, the better angels of my nature prevailed, and I contented myself with a silent sigh, listening to the pitch as I meditated on the script’s use of the passive voice. As if the airline were saying, “This promotion is being pitched without your consent. By whom? No idea. We would certainly never inflict such an indignity upon our paying customers.”

Let me take a moment to make my position clear. I understand that air travel is an unpleasant experience. Anyone who has taken a flight more than once in his life almost certainly understands this fact.

I have shrugged my shoulders for two hours straight in a middle seat. I have sat on the tarmac for longer than I thought possible. I have nearly missed my flight because it took four TSA officers to handle the bomb threat posed by the pink sippy cup belonging to the toddler in front of me.

All that to say: When I arrive at the airport, I am prepared to suffer.

However, air travel and I used to have an agreement. Once I made it through the ritual humiliation of the airport process and actually got to my seat on the plane, I was left more or less alone to endure the next few hours as best I could.

I grew up making two-day road trips in a Suburban with my parents and seven siblings, so I consider myself something of an expert at enduring hours of cramped travel conditions. The trick is just sort of retreating within yourself, ignoring your surroundings, and letting the dull misery of the situation become a sort of vague background noise.

This strategy is why I support Delta’s recent decision to end in-flight refreshments on trips of less than 350 miles. Unless the flight is long enough to warrant it, I don’t want my restless slumber disturbed by a voice asking if I want apple juice like it’s lunchtime at the day care or, if I’m the hapless occupant of an aisle seat, my elbow socket being rearranged by the passage of the snack cart.

I want it to just be me, my popping ears, and my very sore rear end until such time as we touch down and I can begin the "Mad Max: Fury Road" experience of trying to get off the plane.

I should have known, though, that modernity is never content to rest on its laurels. Like a roaring lion, it goes about constantly seeking whom it might devour — if by “devour” we mean “deprive of both money and will to live.” Since most airline passengers are neither sober nor watchful, the airlines are as good a place for devouring as any.

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American Airlines is not alone in its quest to eliminate any and all in-flight respite. I have sat through what can only be described as lottery drawings on Spirit Airlines (may she rest in peace), heard random promotions for goodness knows what on Frontier, and been pitched on the same Delta credit card I had in my wallet at the time.

I understand, to a certain degree, why the airlines see fit to inflict these announcements on their passengers. If you look into it, you’ll find that most airlines today are basically just “banks that happen to fly planes.” They actually lose money on the flying part of the operation, which probably has something to do with the incessant attempts to bring customers over to the profitable side of the business.

The details of airline loyalty programs and how they have changed the industry is a story for another time. My concern is twofold.

First: How long can I endure these incessant credit card pitches before I commit self-harm or — far worse — break down and get one of them?

Second: What’s to stop this most heinous of sales methods from spreading to other forms of transportation? How long will it be before I have to endure automated pitches for the Honda GroundMiles Card whenever I stop at a red light?

I don’t expect much when I travel. Whether I’m sitting in Dallas traffic or at cruising altitude over Oklahoma, my greatest desire at this point is to endure the agony unassisted by the vicissitudes of corporate marketing.