This is My Nightmare

You have undoubtedly heard a story with the following elements:

1. 5 hour flight that should have been 4 hours but plane spent and extra hour on the tarmac
2. Very last row middle seat
3. 400 pound man on right taking half of passenger’s allotted space
4. Young mother with 2-year old, screaming her intestines out, spoiled rotten child on left
5. Absolutely nothing to read or do

I’m there. The question is: How in the unforgiving world did I get there?

I don’t get obsessive, picky or precise about many things, but seat selection on an airplane is one of them. Especially if I book a flight that allows your to pick your own seats for every leg of the trip. I don’t necessarily care about getting a non-stop flight (I am finding more and more people that actually will not travel if they must stop and transfer). On one of the few occasions that I happen to book a non-stopper, I end up here. I don’t really care if I must sit toward the back, but please, in the name of all things holy, give me a mother truckin’ aisle or window seat- because if you don’t, I am going to be one cranky camper.

Exception: If I am placed in the middle by a cute girl (on Southwest-pick-your-own-seat flights, I go through extensive efforts to make this happen), life could get worse. However, this does not happen to be the case. Nope. I got the Incredible Hulk elbowing me in the jejunum on one side and author of “How to Piss Your Kid Off” on the other.

My prepared entertainment of videos on my new 17” lap top is completely irrelevant due to the fact that tight confines (mainly due to Hulk) do not allow enough space for the beastly machine. I immediately regret my purchase decision, wish I had foreseen this circumstance and bought the pocket sized, 6-inch, no CD drive, miniature keyboarded, extended battery computer. All I got now is Sky Mall and no-grit, family-friendly, airline-produced magazine which I am forced to read 2 inches from my face with my armpits tucked beneath my ears.

This is my nightmare.

If I could raise my arm enough to push the flight attendant call button, I would drink enough to make it all go away. Thwarted again.

Upon booking my flight, I went through drastic measures to select appropriate seating and prevent this situation. I went through each flight and picked perfect window seats 4 rows from the front of the plane. The system did not register the first try and I had to start all over again. I checked again two weeks later, and again two weeks before the flight just to make sure because of what happened the first time I tried to book the seat.

It somehow did not work. I wanted to speak with the counter lady as soon as I booked the flight, but I was already short on time and the security line looked longer than that of Harry Potter opening night. All I can do now is piss and moan in my head, act like a pompous ass hole to anyone I encounter and shop for the world’s largest crossword puzzle in one out of my only two reading options.

After the…longest…5…hours…of…my…quarter…century,…thus…far…happy,….but…
looks.... to…be…taking…a…turn…for…the…worse…life, I arrive. I call my bro because he is to be arriving in our hometown the same time as I and we figure out our meeting plan. While waiting for the shuttle, he shows up on the curb next to me with a jolly greeting and coffee in hand. He obviously had a better air experience than I.

We hop on the shuttle, exchange usual “how’s life” pleasantries and after about 5 minutes, he drops the dreaded question where this exchange takes place:

Mike: How was your flight?
Me (preferring to forget about the experience and move forward): Ehhh. It was OK.
Mike: Oh Yeah? How was your back row middle seat?
Me: How the hell did you know that?

The little weasel received my confirmation email that I sent him because I was being polite and wanted to let him know travel plans, went on to American’s website, used my confirmation number and changed my seat.

You are heaping pile of monkey crap little bro. I will never forgive you.

Oh yeah…and check your bag from the trip. There, you will find the cut filets of the fish we caught on Monday. I hope it rots in your bag and you smell like cat food when you see your girlfriend’s parents. Consequently, I hope they tell their daughter that they don’t like you because you don’t wash your clothes and make jokes behind your back for the extent of your relationship because you don’t take showers. For Christmas, they buy you cologne and bar soap to hint at your stench. They decide to have an intervention with you. You try to explain that you didn’t smell like deck hand because you don't bathe, but rather because you were the victim of a practical joke. They don't believe you.

Ass.