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Friendly Skies
May. 8th, 2014 06:39 amI cracked my head on the door frame, a reminder that just because the RJ was a bigger aircraft than the airline's Brasilias, it was still far too small for a Big and Tall shopper like me. As I worked my way to my seat, trying not to clip anybody with my bag, I saw row after row of small people, of skinny people. It was like I was flying out of Bob Hope Airport. I could feel them judging me, each hoping I wasn't going to sit next to them. Close now, I looked up the aisle toward my seat. The other Big and Tall shopper on the flight met my gaze from under his cowboy hat, and we nodded at each other in commiseration.
After the complicated ritual required to stow your carry-on, squeeze into your seat, wrestle your seatbelt out from under your ass, and then fish your entertainment out from under your seat by Cirque du Soleil levels of contortion... well, traditionally there's a minute of silence, as even observers are a bit sweaty and winded. But eventually you come to the awkward conversation. Well. Awkward for me, at least; some people are good at it.
"Where you headed?"
"Chico."
"Mmmm. Nice place."
"Yeah, it is. Going to see my girl. ....What about you?"
"hrm? San Antonio."
"I know somebody from there. Nice place."
"Going to judge a show, and teach a class."
"....Horses? Can you make a living doing that? Professionally?"
He shrugged, as if to indicate that it was not something one did for the money. Whether it was for the honor of the sport or the paucity of the paycheck was a question left to be asked by only the most gauche.
We sat in silence, he perusing his newspaper and I my phone, for just the requisite time to psychologically say 'I am not deliberately breaking off communications' and then we both deliberately broke off communications. For the rest of the flight, we silently worked on the delicate balance of not touching each other and me not getting clipped by the beverage cart.
After the complicated ritual required to stow your carry-on, squeeze into your seat, wrestle your seatbelt out from under your ass, and then fish your entertainment out from under your seat by Cirque du Soleil levels of contortion... well, traditionally there's a minute of silence, as even observers are a bit sweaty and winded. But eventually you come to the awkward conversation. Well. Awkward for me, at least; some people are good at it.
"Where you headed?"
"Chico."
"Mmmm. Nice place."
"Yeah, it is. Going to see my girl. ....What about you?"
"hrm? San Antonio."
"I know somebody from there. Nice place."
"Going to judge a show, and teach a class."
"....Horses? Can you make a living doing that? Professionally?"
He shrugged, as if to indicate that it was not something one did for the money. Whether it was for the honor of the sport or the paucity of the paycheck was a question left to be asked by only the most gauche.
We sat in silence, he perusing his newspaper and I my phone, for just the requisite time to psychologically say 'I am not deliberately breaking off communications' and then we both deliberately broke off communications. For the rest of the flight, we silently worked on the delicate balance of not touching each other and me not getting clipped by the beverage cart.