Granted, I lust for the empty seat. You see, the empty seat means I can relax a little bit. I don't have to feel as though I'm apologizing for being in the row. I always check in and move myself to the perfect seat situation (window seat in a row where only the aisle is occupied) because I know that the chances of filling that middle seat are slim (ha! pun) to none. Sometimes Esteban, in his frequent travels, gets stuck in the middle seat, but so far, I've been lucky. I don't know what I'd do, quite honestly. Throw a fit, perhaps. Or burst into tears. Or perhaps fake a seizure.
I didn't worry when I got to the airport, as the gate wasn't that full. However, when I did get seated, immediately a couple took seats D and E. Whenever it's a couple and I'm already seated, the women almost always choose to sit next to me. I don't know why that is. She seemed pleasant, none of the uncomfortable body language that you usually get. And quite frankly, I was pretty comfy jammed up against the window, even though the entire flight, I was staring at five completely empty seats in the two rows in front of us. Why hadn't I picked that one? Why hadn't they? It seemed like a waste.
My connecting flight was delayed. And overbooked. And full of babies, strollers, people in wheelchairs and old people who couldn't lift their luggage into the bins. After a miserable boarding process, I finally plunked into seat 24A and started getting myself situated: my water bottle, package of cashews and four magazines tucked into the seat back. Then I noticed that a couple was laughing hysterically as they got closer. They were looking at me. What, did my bosom accidentally fall out? They laughed some more. Then they checked their tickets. Then they checked the seat number. Then they laughed harder. They sat down next to me, trying desperately to stifle their giggles. The girl (who chose the middle seat) did a classic feint: "What? Why are you laughing at me? Because I printed so many boarding passes?" Riiiiiight. You're both laughing because of boarding passes? Or because the universe just played a colossal trick on you and placed two Club MTV types on a plane next to the fat girl.
They didn't talk to me the entire flight. Instead, they talked about how much sun they could still get after they landed and got wherever they were going, about how he wanted her to wear a sundress and wanted to see leg, lots of leg, he better see some leg, babe, seriously. He chided her about her waxing appointment and told her that he wanted her to get her "taint" waxed and that he'd call the waxer himself to make the appointment if she was too embarassed. She called him controlling and then she turned away, toward me, which then sent them back to peals of whispers and giggles. At one point, they were wrestling with each other, her elbow jabbing me in the rib. I folded myself up, holding my arms up by my chin, balancing my iPod against the window, breathing in low, even breaths so as not to seem like I was out of shape. I willed myself to shrink. I wanted to compress, condense, turn into a black hole of passenger, so dense that even light cannot escape it. I was happy when they both started to doze. Somewhere over Georgia, the girl's head dropped onto my shoulder and I did not move nor nudge her aside. I think I almost felt grateful. See? I'm not untouchable. Look, your forehead didn't get fat. When she jolted awake, she turned away and fell against him.
When the flight was taxiing in Tampa, the stewardess announced that we could now use cellphones, and he flipped his open, holding it so the screen was pointed away from me. Then I heard the telltale sound of the camera click, then his thumbs danced over the number pad as he composed his text.
The girl had a fake Louis Vuitton bag. So fake that the handles didn't even match the bag. While we were waiting to deplane, I nonchalantly looked it over for a crooked pattern or slipped stamp. In my head, I was glad that they were the kind of assholes who were going to go tanning, because it meant that in 20 years (or less) that guy was going to have skin cancer. And it made me happy, then guilty and then sad because in the space of 2 hours and 45 minutes, I went from feeling pretty good to feeling exactly the way I did in 7th grade. It didn't matter what I accomplished, how talented I am, or how nice. It didn't matter how much I rock a Powerpoint presentation, a karaoke microphone, a punchline or a really killer set of blunt-cut bangs. It didn't matter.
They say that fat is used as an armor. I used to think that was true, even plausible in my case. I don't know anymore. I don't know what it's supposed to protect you from. Because right now, a picture of my stomach, my chest, or perhaps my double-chin in profile is sitting in someone's e-mail box with the subject line "Look what we got stuck sitting next to on our flight to Tampa!" And somehow, that gives them all the power in the world.
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