Oh no, please don’t sit here. Not here.
As I navigate down an aisle that seems designed for runway models or those lucky enough to have a metabolism that allows them to indulge in endless treats without consequence, I feel the piercing avoidance of eye contact from fellow passengers. It’s my first flight in eight years, and I’ve gained a substantial amount of weight since having my children—weight I’m not particularly proud of.
Dressed in an oversized hoodie and black yoga pants that are far too snug, I find myself boarding late with my friend because we opted for breakfast instead. Of course, there are only two seats left: one next to two petite women in their twenties, excited for a weekend in Vegas, and the other squeezed between a businessman and another passenger who shares my larger frame. Naturally, I choose the row of fresh graduates.
To say I struggled to fit into the seat would be an understatement. I practically had to shove myself down, hips colliding with the armrests. As the round businessman next to me wrestled with his seatbelt, I attempted to buckle mine twice, finally conceding that if this plane were to crash, my seatbelt would not be my savior. I simply tucked the ends under my hoodie pocket and offered a polite smile to the flight attendant as she passed by.
My arm, resembling that of a grandma with bat wings, extended into the aisle just enough that, each time someone walked by, they bumped into me and looked up in surprise. I smiled back, as if to say, “It’s alright. I have two arms, anyway, and this one could lose a few inches.”
When people talk about “leg room” on a plane, they typically reference the space for their knees or feet. However, I’d like to remind you that thighs and hips are part of the equation too! Mr. Southwest Airlines, I’m going to need you to widen those seats, which clearly seem designed for tiny infants!
This flight was the longest 4½ hours of my existence—excluding, of course, the time I spent in labor. I felt uncomfortable and exhausted, grappling with guilt each time the girl beside me adjusted her position, knowing my right hip was encroaching into her space.
Then, reality hit me hard. My two young seatmates began pouring tiny liquor bottles they’d cleverly snuck aboard into their complimentary sodas. I realized I was closer in age to their mother, who sat behind them, having packed those bottles along with a bag of snacks adorned with smiley faces for each of the young women. When did I become old enough to be mistaken for a mom? Am I not still, like, 22?
Sweet Mother of all things holy.
Now the businessmen felt inclined to suggest activities for us in Vegas. First suggestion: a ventriloquist show. So there it is, folks. We must look like two grandmothers planning trips to the world’s largest ball of yarn and Amish country tours.
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In summary, this flight reminded me of the challenges that come with traveling as a parent, and the unexpected realizations about age and comfort that can arise during such experiences.