432,000
That’s how many inches above the round I am right now, on my way from Detroit to San Francisco for another trip. Flying is not something I enjoy or dread really, it’s just something I do for work. I’ve become accustomed to the security procedures over the years and have learned to dress comfortably and for quick passage, not necessarily for appearance.
As an example, I’m currently sitting in the middle seat, (26B to be specific) wearing a t-shirt, jogging pants and loose tennis shoes. I’m not going to win any fashion awards, but for being crammed in between two strangers on a 5 hour flight, I’m relatively comfortable. That is aside from having to type like a T-rex, with my elbows glued to my sides. Were I to have worried about how I looked and worn jeans and a button up shirt, I think I’d be finding myself quite a bit less comfy.
I was the first in my row to board the plane, and sat for quite a while in the middle seat waiting to see who I’d be setting between. It’s a horrible thing really, analyzing people as they come down the aisle wondering if they are your “seatmates”. Being crammed next to someone (or two someone’s in my case) for a few hours really isn’t that big of a deal, it sure can seem like it. It’s must be something like what the bride and groom of an arranged marriage go through, just with shorter consequences.
As this person and that made their way toward my seat I silently judged them as desirable or undesireable seatmates. This was a purely unintentional exercise mind you. This only seems to happen when I’m in the middle seat. When I’m in an aisle or window seat, I could care less who plops besode me, but being in the middle seat there are space issues. You can’t lean away from anyone on either side, so you’re stuck with what ever the ticket agent gave you to deal with. So as folks meanered between the seats, cramming oversized bags into undersized overhead bins, I was still all alone. I kept glancing at the people moving onto the plane, hoping that the folks in 26A and 26C somehow decided at the last minute that they didn’t really want to go to San Francisco.
As they filled the plane, people of all shapes and sizes made their way in my direction. There were a few people I hoped were not being seated by me. One was a guy with a huge to-go box from an airport restaurant in one hand and two carry-on bags in the other. He was talking loadly and seemed like the kind of guy that would be annoying to be around. Then there was the two older ladies– they were talking loudly and complaining to each other about EVERYTHING back in the terminal. I certainly didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of their conversation for the next 1,200 miles. In the end, I was flanked by two people who are quietly doing their thing while I quietly do mine. Not bad— not as good as an empty row would have been, but not bad.
