Last and Final Call

“Last and Final Call for Flight ***!”

Aah. They are playing my song. I love to be the last one on the plane. Carrying a small bag on board gives me the advantage of not having to charge in at the first call, just to secure valuable overhead compartment space.

Walking down the aisle, I hold my breath and say my little Seating Prayer. Please, not next to the mother with crying baby. Please, not next to the two small brats. And please, please, definitely not next to the FOB wearing winter jacket. In summer.

FOB + jacket + 90 degree heat = BO. Formidable BO.

My good karma kicks in and I pass them all.

Hold up in aisle. Man blocking way, unpacking paraphernalia from his carryon that he absolutely cannot live without for the forty-minute flight.

Here I am. 25A. Phew! Seated in 25B is California-looking chick.
California chick = thin = I get to keep all 106 sq inches of space. My space.

I really have nothing against a person’s race and religion. It’s just a person’s size that bothers me. Hold your outrage and hear me out, please. I am just as much an egalitarian as the next person, but it’s just their size on an airplane that bothers me. When I have paid a king’s ransom to sit in a metal cabin, in an area smaller than a chicken coop, I want to fill every square inch of it with my own arms and legs, and my own bony body.

By now, the average reader will be aghast, appalled and affronted by the sheer lack of political-correctitude. I would request you not to get your knickers in a knot… as the man said, it just makes you walk funny. I repeat: I have no objection to anyone’s size and girth as long as you keep it in your own space. Your space.

On one flight, a lady the size of Texas had conveniently lifted the armrest and spread herself on 66.43% of my seat. You will forgive me. Marriage to an engineer means that precision is as important as fidelity. I squeezed past into my window seat and used a shoe horn to fit my torso into the remaining 33.47%, arms and legs contorted into the window space. Confrontation (as well as math) not being one of my strong points, I sat pretzel-like, biding my time, willing her to get up. Sure enough, she did – may God bless her bladder - and bam! Down went the armrest!

Agent has secured her territory. All clear. Over and out.