the middle seat

We all like our space and have our own comfort zones we prefer others to, well, not occupy. But sometimes we get smooshed into places, or situations, that suddenly become rather uncomforting, confined, and/or suffocating—and we can’t do a dang thing about it. And so, three options are presented:

1. Hold our breath, stare straight ahead and wish we had removable limbs a la Mrs. Potato Head to gain back those precious few inches.

2. Nonchalantly wiggle around like a terrible two-year-old, hoping that the offender(s) will take a hint and move over or elsewhere, as appropriate.

3. Realize that it’s not as big of a deal as we’re imagining and focus on something else for the time being.

Last week I went on an incredibly relaxing Florida vacation with my best friend. We sipped salt-rimmed margaritas, ate fresh seafood, soaked in the sunshine (a little too much—whoops!), and overall just enjoyed each other’s company. It was a much-needed trip, truly deserved.

Monday evening we had to fly home.

Our Southwest airplane landed in Tennessee for a small pit stop—small enough for us to wait 20 minutes on board. We took this time to move from the middle of the plane to the front row where there was ample legroom, a close restroom, and no line we’d have to wait in while dodging carry-on suitcases bombs-awaying at our faces from the overhead compartments at the end of the flight. We figured the last leg to Hartford, CT, on a random Monday wouldn’t fill up and we’d be able to use the center seat as our makeshift coffee table. Thinking this, we happily stretched our legs and scattered our magazines and Twilight books (Eclipse and Breaking Dawn, respectively) around our area.

So I’m leaving out one minor detail: the carefully calculated sprawl out o’ goods was a scam. We didn’t want anyone to sit with us. We were overtired, getting attitude-y, and our ears were still out of whack from the high altitude we had just traveled in. Give us a break. Jessa stared intently at the same page in her magazine for what seemed like an eternity, pretending to be super-excited about a new lip gloss trick that was supposed to help plump your pout. I nonchalantly craned my neck toward the back, looking for our imaginary friend. (I don’t know; I just thought it seemed helpful in the please-do-not-sit-with-us plan at the time.)

“What if someone asks you if they can sit here?” Jessa quizzed me.

“Um, I don’t know. I think I’d have to say OK,” I mumbled, still looking back.

“You’re such a pushover,” she rolled her eyes (I think). “Of course, make me look like the bad guy.”

I cracked open my complimentary can of water and took a swig. “What are you doing!?” she hissed. “They’re going to know!”

“Know what?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Know that the water isn’t for someone else who’s sitting with us and ask us to sit here!” she replied. Whoops.

I carefully set the can atop Breaking Dawn and peeked through the tiny square aircraft window to see how much longer the line was to board the plane. “Only a few more people and then we’re safe,” I whispered. “The last person is a big guy in jeans and a blue polo.”

“Watch him ask to sit with us,” she muttered.

“Shut it,” I said, wishing I hadn’t opened the can.

Like annoying delayed departure clockwork, I heard a voice directed at the top of my head. “Excuse me? Is someone sitting there?” I slowly looked up from my “busy” state. A very round man in thick glasses and a strangely coiffed comb-over blinked back at me, waiting.

I was a deer in headlights. Jessa didn’t say a word. “Um, no …” I stammered. I am not getting stuck in the middle seat.

“Well, move over so he can sit then,” Jessa perked up, dripping with fake politeness. Of course.

“You little …” I hissed under my breath. I unhooked my already fastened seatbelt and awkwardly cleared off our makeshift table. Immediately, I started to fume. A huge smile spread across her smug little face.

The man sat down in the Best Seat Available and sighed happily. He stretched his ginormous legs out in a V-formation—forcing me to cross mine and squeeze them together in the process—and leaned a little toward the left (aka against my right shoulder). Then he opened up the tattered paperback he had brought with him in his left grubby palm. (Maybe his hands weren’t grubby, per se, but I was biased at this point.) I didn’t even have to turn my head; I could have read along with him.

Jessa, who five minutes ago had been sleepy and complaining about being in a bad mood, was magically chipper and chirpy as she started pointing out things in her Cosmo magazine. When she noticed my death glares in her direction, she half-smirked. “Whaaat?” she asked coyly. “It’s good for you.”

I didn’t see anything good about it; I hated the freakin’ middle. I liked knowing there was an out if I ever needed it. I didn’t like people touching me, breathing on me, starting small chat. And there I sat, crammed and cranky in my own misery, wanting to ask Mr. Make Himself Comfortable at My Expense if he wanted to sit on my lap while he was at it. Minutes felt like agonizing hours as every move he made was magnified to the hundredth power.

Moping isn’t going to get you anywhere, I finally chided my pouting self, the terrible two-year-old. No one feels bad for you. Get over it.

So I did, simple as that. And it was actually pretty easy. I took a few breaths and reminded myself it wasn’t the end of the world. I started responding to Jessa’s sporadic magazine comments. I sat back in my seat and eventually relaxed my legs a little. I even turned on the guy’s light so he could see what he was reading better. In short: I got over myself.

Sometimes we need a kick in the pants, or a squish from both sides, to make us realize that the world doesn’t revolve around ourselves. Getting over our narcissistic tendencies, having our self-blown bubbles popped now and again, can really wake us up and make us see the things that actually matter: being courteous, remaining calm, and caring about others’ feelings aside from our own. When we reached the airport, the nice man helped us with our carry-on luggage. I walked off the plane with a tiny smile. The middle seat wasn’t that bad.