The Middle Seat

I am on a mission. A mission to find the idiot who designed the middle seat on an airplane.

Some folks, like me, like the window seat. You get about an extra inch of space. You get to see stuff outside. You get to see the world tilt at an odd slant as the plane takes off. And you get to see all the houses around the airport slowly diminish until they look like little doll houses. Then there are the folks who prefer the aisle seat. Perhaps they have weak bladders and need to use the loo often. perhaps they just like that the cart carrying sodas and water and tasteless snacks knocks their foot or knee each time it passes.

Then there's the middle seat. No-one likes the middle seat.

But when you fly Southwest Airlines, there are no assigned seats. So you can't smile nicely at the woman behind the ticketing counter when you first check in and ask in an accent if you could please have a window (or an aisle) seat. It's first come, first served. Each man for himself. Pushing. Shoving. Humanity at its very finest.

So when you're in Group C, that means you're the last to board. And no matter what time of day or night it is, flights to Vegas are always full. So on you walk. And every single window and aisle seat is taken. You look around, scouring the seats, hoping someone has left one for you. And there you see it. Back there, in row 7439. A seat. A damn middle seat. The ONLY seat left on the plane.

So you smile at the woman in the aisle seat as she rolls her eyes. She has to unclip her belt, make the effort to get up, and wait all of 22 seconds while you shimmy into your middle seat.

You sit there. Tweedle Dee to your left. And Tweedle Dum to your right. And that's the way it's going to be for the next four freakin' hours. Enjoy!