People, I think it's important you learn from my mistakes.
On my way to Atlanta, I plunk into Delta seat 32B—because who doesn't love being wedged between two total strangers? 32C, on the aisle, immediately hides under her hoodie and eases into a classic leave-me-alone slump, which I totally expect since girls just getting over teenitis are really still full of "Ew, old people!" attitude. When 32A shows up, he makes me get up so he can squeeze his skinny ass into his coveted window seat—the seat I should have if I hadn't screwed up my online seat selection. Why the airline didn't immediately call me afterward and say, Dude, you SURE you want to sit between total strangers? is frankly beyond my comprehension. Why does no one question my sanity? No wonder the airlines are losing money.
So 32A buckles in and spreads open his newspaper like he's home at his breakfast table. He is infringing on my space and his right arm occupies the armrest between us. Dude! At LEAST give me the armrest! I'm sure that is a rule!
Lesson One: "B" seaters get the armrests!
Lesson Two: Don't touch strangers sitting next to you, cuz they flinch like you just lit them up with a case of ebola via transmission of your personal cooties.
I'm too fragile for that kind of rejection, as you know, so stuck between 32A and 32C I read my "More" magazine, elbows glued to my sides. For all of about two minutes. Since 32A is blatantly violating Lesson One etiquette, I fan out my left elbow and ease it onto a sliver of the real estate between us, deliberately violating Lesson Two. People, he is asking for it!
You see where I'm going? Oh yes, I'm commandeering the island. Pretty soon my arm is flush with 32A's. If I had a flag, I'd knock him off and jam it into the armrest. This land is mine! But he's not giving ground either, so we total strangers share the armrest. Let me repeat: we are sharing. The guy's not even worried about cooties, and I'm like, Cooties be damned!
He looks at me, inches away from my face. "Think we're above 10,000 feet?"
Like I'm an altimeter. "I don't know," I say, as he looks through his brown-rimmed glasses into my eyes.
Whoa. Hold up! Re-eval. 32A is muy caliente. Man, I'm so off my game. How did I not notice this earlier? He mutters something about giving it a shot and turns on his iPhone. I think, Cute or not, if your phone causes us to crash, I will kill you dead.
I continue reading "More," my arm warmed by 32A's; but it's hard to concentrate on 150 Best Fall Looks Under $250 and Why the Recession is Good for Women when my brain is vacillating between images of death by sudden impact and the boggling perks of life as a B-seater.
Pretty soon 32A is talking to me again. He makes me smile, and I end up laughing, kind of like a hyena—you know that kind of nervous flirty laugh? Yeah, that's mine. I can't help it. That's what I do with strangers who are cute and interesting and coveting my real estate. Okay, maybe I'm the one who's coveting, but I am totally welcoming his cooties, y'all. Pretty soon, 32A scrawls his mobile on the back of his biz card and my number on a napkin that he tucks into . . . somewhere, I don't know. Perhaps his billetera. When the pilot says something about Atlanta, I realize I completely missed the landing. WTF?
Lesson Three: Screw Match.com. Go for the B seat, just in case.
|
Pop Quiz: Can you find the Tom Cruise quote above and name the movie it's from?
|
Answer: "This land is mine!" from Far and Away.
Maybe we’ll see Björk?
2 days ago
