Three months ago, at least, maybe more, I booked a flight to Chicago for IRA. Because this was job-related it when through a travel agency. Personally, I like to book my own flights because I can pick my own times, seats, etc. I have broad shoulders, so I hate being smashed against the window, and I always take an aisle seat (the hazards are the steel serving cart and folks’ bums smacking into your shoulder: I win the battle over the bums and lose to the metal cart). On the other hand—or is that elbow?—I choose from the wing up. Why? Because it takes a bleeding a half hour to empty even a small jet. If you sit up front, you’re out in a minute or two. If you sit in the back, you’re stuck. Got a tight connection? Too bad. So sad. Take a seat. You’re going to be here awhile.
But there’s another reason to sit forward on a plane, and it stinks. The lav. The lavatory. The potty. The tiny closet with the slanted roof that you smack your forehead on while trying to guide a stream of liquid into a turbulent target. And when you open the little folding door, you’re always staring directly at the guy with the worst seat in the house. Your eyes meet right before the folding door smacks his shoulder. It’s like getting hit with the food cart repeatedly.
This week, I was that guy. Thanks to my travel agent who had three months + notice on booking these flights, I got to ride shotgun on the aerial porta-potty.
In a row.