I thought I’d settled in for a quiet single hour flight. I scoped out the perfect endcaps in an otherwise filling airplane – an elderly woman nearly falling asleep in her copy of Fifty Shades, and an off duty pilot.
And then you came along.
The plane was full. And the pilot? Well he was just along for the ride.
So you took his place.
And my peace.
Quite possibly my sanity.
Certainly my Bombay Sapphire up with two olives had settled in. But you had a baby.
Cute. But active.
And you? I was never quite sure if we were experiencing turbulence or if you’d just let yourself drop back into your seat as if someone had simply cut your strings and let you loose like dead weight in a mob movie jostling me back to reality from whatever level of drowsy I’d managed to succumb. And I’m sure you were attempting crude Morse code with your overhead light (though I’m assuming your wife ten rows back was enjoying her peaceful nap because she never did quite get the message) so wonderfully pointing in my direction.
And lest I forget, I’m a bit of a size queen. So though you had wonderfully large, potentially delectable shoulders, and I’m sure you use them well, I prefer the full 17.25 inches allotted to me by Southwest. There are just some places where an inch makes all the difference.
An Eternal Cynic