Fat Guy in a Little Plane

Wednesday, December 27th, 2006
Why can’t I ever sit next to some dashing young man on a plane? We’ve all heard those stories and about people meeting the love of their life 30000 feet over Des Moines or some bullshit- why can’t they ever be me? Why do I have to sit next to the most uncomfortable human beings in the world? This particular flight was a doozie, but of course it was my own just desserts for being so mean and hateful prior to the flight. I board the plane, and I have the first seat on the right hand side, in the aisle. Well of course there is someone sitting in the chair, and of course he weighs easily 400 lbs. So, I ask him if he is sitting in the aisle or window seat, and the stewardess, without any prompting from me or Chubs McGee, pipes up and says, rather loudly “Oh, he has to stay right there”, as though he has been a very bad boy, and seat 1A is his time out chair. I reply that my ticket seems to indicate that I need to stay right there too, so we have ourselves a bit of a pickle. She seems unconcerned with this, unlike the countless passengers who are now backing up in the aisle. I turn to my rotund friend and say I don’t care whether he takes the window or the aisle, but he needs to pick one. So he scoots in, sort of, and I proceed to move in front of my seat, knowing just through shear spacial relations that my ass will in no way fit next to his. Now, I am not a small girl, I think we can all be honest, but I do fit into my chair just fine. No so with my seat mate. He was easily taking up half of my personal space, and on an RJ, where there isn’t a lot of personal space in the first place, this can become problematic.

Here begins the most uncomfortable plane ride of my life.

For those of your who have never ridden the 9:59pm flight direct from Mpls to Wichita, the equipment provided is what is known as an “RJ”, which I can only imagine stands for “Ridiculously Junior”, because this plane is itty-bitty. It is only slightly bigger than uthose radio-controlled planes you see nerdy junior-high boys playing with in the park. Needless to say, you need to get cozy with your neighbor on the best of occasions, but on this particular flight I felt I would soon be able to trace 1A’s anatomy blind-folded. He was literally sitting on me, or rather part of his dewlap was sitting on me. Now, I’m not one to make fun of people for being overweight, and I actually felt quite bad for the guy as it was clear he was intensely uncomfortable, but at a certain point I gotta look out for number one, you know what I mean? So I’m trying very hard not touch him any more than is absolutely necessary, because it’s hot and sticky and I don’t like strangers touching me. I cross my legs, but that shifts my butt over into his fleshy leg. I stick my legs straight out in front of me, but that pushes my lower back so far out of alignment I feel like I’m doing a back bend. Finally I settle on kicking my left leg up high onto the bulkhead in front of me, while hugging my right armrest and keeping my right leg in the aisle. I look like some acrobatic contortionist, much to the amusement of the surrounding passengers, I’m sure. Of course, this means that every time the drink cart comes by, I get slammed in the knee, shoulder, what have you, without so much as an “excuse me” from the loud, obnoxious stewardess, who began the flight informing us that we were going to Tulsa. This same dumb bitch asked me 3 separate times whether or not my ipod was off, because I guess she is unfamiliar with the ways of electronics and did not understand that a blank, black screen equals off, no matter how many times I showed it to her.

Grrrr.....

So I am currently blogging from the floor of gate A10 in the Minneapolis St. Paul Airport, courtesy of Boingo online service, the wireless provider the airport sees fit to use. I am paying 8 bucks for the priviledge of reaching out to you people, which I will gladly pay to escape the ridiculousness that has become airline travel in this country. I know I've written about this before, but it behooves mentioning yet again. Everywhere around me, as far as the eye can see is mooing, grazing, glassy-eyed cattle. God, I hate these people.

Has anyone noticed that Americans approach flying like they are fleeing a third world country? Everyone seems to be wearing the baggiest, ugliest most shapeless crap they could dig out of their closets. They cart pillows, blankets, garbage sacks, babies, food, as though the khmer rouge was right behind them. Gate A10, my new permanent home, is no exception. These people are fugly. These people are Wichita. That's right kids, once again I am travelling into the belly of the beast, and once again my companions on this journey are the world's greatest collection of sideshow freaks. There's the 800 pound woman, the man with backwards legs, the World's Most Boring Human Being, and all manner of plain people of the Great Plains. What is it about a certain breed of woman- they hit 35 and it's all down hill from there: stringy disgusting hair, girth roughly the size of Texas, flowered sweat suit, too much perfume. Do they just give up? Kids, as an example of what I am talking about, at this very moment in my line of sight is a gentleman of roughly Methuselan age who is wearing a neon lime green polyester polo shirt, stain on the omnipresent beer gut, natch. Of course there are the requisite slacks, slung low under his manly belly. On the opposite side of that spectacle is a woman, a girl, really, who fancies herself Paris Hilton, without the trust fund. She is wearing a olive drab sweat/ lounge suit, also slung low on her decidely more svelte midsection. She is chewing gum like a cow chews cud, lazily, open-mouthed and loudly. I despise every little thing about her.

Thankfully, she does not have a dog. Seriously, what's with all the damn dogs? I have counted 5 dogs in little bag-like carriers in the past hour. Why in God's name do you need to bring your bishon frise on a cross country flight? The poor little bastard gets to ride around in his own shit covered pope mobile just so that you can have the pleasure of toting a living thing around like it was this season's hottest handbag? Screw you. At least I let the animal die before wearing it. You want to humiliate something for your own enjoyment, then have children like God intended.

What is it about travelling by plane that makes me so vitriolic? I'm catty as hell on my best days, but flying makes my sartorial judgement rival that of Anna Wintour. And it's not just clothes that get me, it's the existence of other human beings in general. Their mannerisms, smells, expressions, voices, breath... it all just irritates the crap out of me. I find fault with the smallest thing, I find superiority in the miniscule and ridiculous. Why? I'm opened to suggested reasons.