The Amazing Adventures of Permanent Lifestyle Change Girl: The Middle Seat.

I was so excited about my trip to Colorado that I forgot about my seat assignment anxiety. Seat 21E. E as in EEEK, Egads! the middle seat! I board the plane. The Evil Flight Attendant then announces that the flight is “completely full.” Shit!

I walk down the aisle of the cabin and scan the row numbers. I tried to smile to counteract the panicked look that flashes over each passenger who sits by an empty middle seat.

I’m not being paranoid. I know that look of “Please God, not next to me!” when a large person comes rolling down the aisle. Cause I know what it means: constant thigh and arm contact. Talk about being joined at the hip!

I get to my row and it is empty! No way I’m this lucky. I take my middle seat and wait…

First Mr Aisle Seat appears. He’s young, in great shape and big. We both exchange conciliatory smiles and glance toward the still empty window seat because we know what’s coming. The final nail in my coffin in flight hell.

I start praying to myself:
Please God, let me be seated next to some petite little chicky poo!

You know the type! The ones who carry a purse the size of a greeting card envelope, a little book and displaying her little flat midriff. Maybe she’ll have her belly button pierced. Maybe the back strings of her thong will rise above her low-rise jeans… And then she’ll sit cross-legged Indian style in her seat. Slut!

But that wasn’t my luck. I was seated between two linebackers.

Finally, Big Mr. Windowseat appears at our row and Youngstud Aisleseat lifts one nimble firm thigh over his armrest then ambles out of his aisle seat. It’s a struggle even for him and he looks like he could do… well, anything with ease… so I know I’m screwed. They stand face to face. Big Mr. Windowseat steps aside for Youngstud to enter the aisle. It’s my turn to contort my way out of my seat and over the aisle seat. I want to say: “Turn your heads! Please don’t watch me do this!” but I realize that’s ridiculous. I decide that no matter how much it hurts I am going to get out of this row as daintily as humanly possible. I grab the top of the back of the seat in front of me and lift my bulk up. I was hoping to then slide my way past the two armrests but to no avail. I had to straddle and lift my ass and thighs past two armrests. Bam! One of the armrests slams into the side of my thigh.

“That’ll leave a mark!”

Oh shut up! Big Mr. Windowseat!

We all do our weird little limbo moves back into our seats and I am officially in Hell. Youngstud has his legs all wide open, and Windowseat’s big bulk is meshed to mine. Of course, all of our thighs are meshed together in bonded matrimony. Youngstud has commandeered the armrest to the left of me (selfish bastard, he already has the aisle armrest) and me – apologetic for being so fat – surrender the right armrest to Big Mr. Windowseat. Yep! I’m a big sucker.

I don’t know about the rest of you but I feel horribly guilty about my bulk spilling over into my seat mate’s lap. Even though the armrest provides some barriers between our bodies, our upper and lower halves are melded. So in my quest to delineate our flesh, I contort myself into the position of least physical contact with my seat mates.

They’ll think to themselves: Gee, I sat next to a huge woman and we hardly pressed flesh at all. It was as if she was a size two!

NOT!

My arms are crossed over my chest. Unfortunately, this positioning leaves me in a frozen pose like an Egyptian Pharaoh as he lay in his burial chamber. (I told you I was in a coffin!) This regal position – so familiar to dead ancient Egyptians – wreaks havoc upon the living, especially whilst seated and trying to hold one’s legs together to keep thigh contact at a minimum. It sends waves of pain through my lower back and between my shoulder blades. And because my fellow passenger in front of me has chosen his option to lower his seat-back, my knees are jammed against the back of his seat. I can’t extend my legs forward because I have a tote bag the size of an armchair (mine by the way) stuffed underneath the seat in front of me. I have one buttock slightly lifted and so my body is in a semi twist. I’d say this position is a combo of: Egyptian Pharaoh, Olympic diver and a Half Nelson. Nice.

I do all of this to spare my fellow passengers the discomfort of pressing so close to me. I feel it is my duty as a polite spirit to lessen my weight’s impact on my fellow human. I start to wonder if I have a highly developed sense of self-loathing. I begin to wonder if I am in need of some serious therapy.

Besides, I think to myself, do these assholes even know what I am going through for their comfort?

Youngstud has not only commandeered both armrests but his big sexy thigh is on my side. And Big-Assed Mr. Windowseat doesn’t seem to care that I have no armrest and his big heated arm is all up on me. Schmuck!

I want to spread out and just lean all over them, maybe scratch under my boobs and fart really loudly, but I don’t even have the space to let one escape.

I hold my form tightly and suffer with silent screaming inside my head until the plane begins its descent. Thank the Maker! I am determined to never wait until the last minute to buy airplane tickets again. I’m taking the aisle seat. And I’m gonna lose some weight.