The soda on my tray table is now so close to my face that I can actually smell the artificial coloring, but I take pleasure knowing my filthy shoes are resting comfortably on your laptop bag.
Variable #1: For various reasons, I fly a lot. Business, personal, whatever.
Variable #2: I am a tall person. 6’4” actually, and weighing well over 250 lbs, not the least bit of which is toned, David Hasselholf-like physique.
Now being near-yeti in size and fitting comfortably into the ungodly tight torture contraptions US Airways calls “seats” do not go hand-in-hand. My shoulders are wedged within the seat padding, my leg hangs into the aisle and God help the person next to me if they think the middle armrest is for both passengers. Because its not. It’s for me.
This cartoon-like discomfort would be almost bearable if I was the only passenger on the plane. Unfortunately, there are people next to me, behind me, and—the absolute worst—in front of me. You, the sadistic seat recliner, who in the same second the plane reaches cruising altitude and the seat belt sign beeps off, ka-chunks your seat all the way back like a bulldozer dropping its bucket.
Before, I had a half-inch of air between my knees and your seat. Now, I’m pretty sure my kneecaps are shattered and my femurs bruised from the massive trauma your fat reclining ass has inflicted. Grimacing, I stretch my feet under you seat and slouch down. The soda on my tray table is now so close to my face that I can actually smell the artificial coloring, but I take pleasure knowing my filthy shoes are resting comfortably on your laptop bag.
And please, ignore me when I ask politely for you to move your seat back up. It is your right as a paying ticket-holder to cut off the circulation below my knees. Thanks again, and I look forward to hating you on a future flight.