I like the aisle seat on an airplane. In fact, I’ll usually pick another flight if I can’t get the aisle. When I was an airline newbie, I preferred the window, so I could look out at all the pretty scenery rolling by below – the neat geometric shapes of the farm fields, the shiny snaking rivers, and majestic mountains, and on the horizon the barely detectable and likely imagined curve of the earth: beautiful.
But after several hundred flights, I don’t really give a crap anymore. I’d much rather have a quick exit to the toilet and an extra couple inches of elbow room than stare out the window at a bunch of boring farmland.
That, and I like to stick my feet into the aisle and trip unwary passengers.
Of course, this can be dangerous. Flight attendants live for this opportunity, gleefully crushing the feet of sleeping aisle-sitters with their heavy beverage carts. How else can they release all that pent up rage?
Think about it: being ignored during the flight safety briefings, forced to do that embarrassing pantomime show with the phony seat belt and air mask, pointing at the exits fore, middle, and aft like the passengers have Forrest Gump-like intelligence.
Let’s be honest – when flying over the Southwestern United States, does it really matter where the inflatable life-vest is? It’s not like they’re going to land in someone’s swimming pool.
It has to be frustrating. So why not run over some poor bastard’s feet? It must make her feel better, inflicting a little pain on an ungrateful customers. And besides, he shouldn’t have stuck them out there in the first place, right?
But angry flight attendants aren’t the only aisle-seat danger. There’s also the backpack-carrying teenager. Really.
You’re all settled in, your bag is stowed, and ZONE 3 is just starting to board. You’re minding your own business, maybe texting your wife or reading a book, and here comes some idiot teenager, his pants down around his frigging knees, iPod cranked up so high there’s blood oozing out around his Skullcandy earbuds. And on his hunched shoulders is a backpack heavy enough to topple a Special Forces soldier.
So the kid stops right next to you, looks down at his ticket, realizes he lost count somewhere around Row 11 and does an abrupt about face. There’s no warning bell, no excuse me sir, the kid just spins around like some possessed merry-go-round and WHAM, his backpack hits you in the side of the head, and you don’t regain consciousness until somewhere over Topeka. Ouch.
As if this isn’t bad enough, there are the big people. You know what I’m talking about. Last night this woman got on the plane and, honest Injun, I overheard the pilot radio down to the control tower for more fuel. She came galumphing down the aisle, massive hips knocking people out left and right, and of course, she was headed right for me.
I tried to give her as much clearance as possible, leaning over until my back started to spasm, but it was no good. She pulled up alongside me, made a three-point turn, hoisted her container-sized carryon over her head, and backed her hippo-like butt into my face while she wrestled it into the overhead.
Now, I don’t mind a woman’s butt in my face any more than the next guy, but when she weighs four-hundred pounds and is dressed in lumpy, pink spandex pants, I’ll take a rain check.
After last night, I’m rethinking my airline seating preferences. Maybe the window seat’s not so bad.
P.S. Sorry there’s no picture with the post. I couldn’t get at my camera due to the enormous ass in my face. And had I actually managed to take a picture of her enormous butt, she likely would have killed me.