I’ve booked the ticket, now I just have to pick my seat and wrap things up.
The only seats available? 15E and 31B.
This can only mean one thing: the middle seat.
Whether I’m sandwiched between two big-ass loafs or wafer-thin Minnies, the problem is the same.
I’m trapped. God forbid I’m actually able to fall asleep. It’s only a matter of time before I lean right or left and drool on the Ed Hardy acolyte who’s hogging the armrest with his tattooed forearm.
If I am able to contort myself like a Cirque de Soliel freakasauras flex and pull out my laptop, I’m unable to move in my invisible straitjacket.
It nosedives from there. I spiral deep into my childhood, where I was left to straddle the hump in the backseat of the family car, trapped between my two older and decidedly ungenerous brothers. While my aisle mates are not likely to pinch or punch me, they are likely to irk me all the same with their superior seat assignments.
So I’m left with no choice but to land a solid punch to the middle seat’s face. Which is harder than it looks, considering I have no room to haul back and let it rip.