A Letter to the Man in the Aisle Seat, from the Woman in the Middle Seat
Two seat options, both alike in dignity. In fair airplane, where we lay our scene. Not romance.
Dear Sir to My Right,
From what I understand, you’re flying to Georgia from New York on an aeroplane. What a coincidence. I am also flying to Georgia from New York on an aeroplane. Coincidentally, it is the same aeroplane as you are seated to my right.
I see that you have selected the aisle seat. Excellent choice. I, for one, selected the middle seat. It was not so much as my choice, but rather a circumstance I fell into. My mother dubbed it my just desserts for waiting so long to book my flight. “That’s what happens,” she sighed into the phone receiver. I imagined her standing at the house phone in the kitchen, the one she refuses to give up in case of global apocalypse. She unreasonably reasons that there’s a possibility for the satellites to crash down, cell phones will have no service, and who will be the one laughing then? Assumably, my mother in our kitchen who won’t be able to call anyone. Why are the satellites crashing down, you may wonder? Well, in my mother’s words: if the Earth’s core starts sucking up the planet, it would ruin the gravitational pull and basically fuck everything up.
Speaking of which, I notice that your elbow is on my armrest.
I know, I know. Technically the armrest doesn’t belong to me. Rather, it belongs to the airline, which belongs to investors and millionaires and VC investment firms, which you probably are or are a part of. But seeing as you boarded when they called Zone Basic — as opposed to the fancier, millionaire sounding Zone Priority Platinum, Zone Priority Gold, Zone Gold, Zone Medallion, or Zone Magnesium Alloy— you were one of the middle to last zones to board the plane with the rest of the hoypoloi. I, myself, boarded when the flight attendant called for Zone Basic Bitches. How they knew I enjoyed Sunday brunch with the girls and called autumn Pumpkin Spice Latte season, I will never know. But I guess that’s the personalized service they advertise.
Am I supposed to aim for Zone Priority Platinum? As if we’re all angling for a ring on it? I think not, Sir to My Right. I think not.
I am a strong, independent woman. And you’ll do well to note that, as I, the middle seat occupant, need to remind you of my ownership of these here arm rests.
Societal aeronautics and etiquette dictate that these here armrests are mine, because while I forsook the window seat— the elderly bawdy woman to my left has fallen asleep face first into the window shade of the aeroplane— and gave leave of the aisle seat with its additional foot space and easy access to the restroom— or safety exits lest my mom is correct about Earth’s core inevitably pulling itself in— my comfort, my boon, if you will, are these. Here. Armrests. And you are taking more than your share.
In fact, you’re taking all of it with your left arm. Are you aware of this? I think not, as you are so deep in thought while watching the latest crime drama on your regular sized iPad, head encased in large, sound canceling headphones.
It’s the headphones that tipped me off.
You’re a seasoned traveler, Sir. Other than construction workers or newborn baby’s in a loud space, who would need sound canceling headphones? Perpetual world wanderers like yourself! Meaning you know the rules of aeronautical etiquette better than I— the Basic Bitch who had to skip 3 weeks of Soul Cycle and a handful of happy hours to save up for this flight. I am a perennial non-traveler. A rock. A hardened geodude who cannot afford to roam or afford sound canceling headphones and who has been using a pair of carcinogenic earbuds from the Duane Reade for a few weeks now. And the left earbud is out.
Have you ever listened to music with one side out? You usually only hear the bass beats— that’s just a constant heartbeat rhythm, occasional yeah-yeah’s, and none of the lyrics! I’ve been listening to Lizzo, making up my own refrains, having to empower myself with my own beats.
This is where you come in, Sir. I noticed that you seemed irked when I shoved your elbow off my armrest. This is my district. I can allow you to use the armrest, sure, but that’s at my discretion. As it is your discretion to allow or disallow any of us to use the restroom and move about the cabin.
Actually, that permission comes first from the captain and when I see the seatbelt light turned off, but as the commissioner of the aisle, it is you who dictates who passes and when. Are you sleeping? Is your tray table out? Are you lurched forward, arms above your head, huddled in an altitude panic?
Then, Sir: We. Shall. Not. Pass.
And I respect this authority. I commend this authority. I’ve even held this authority prior to this flight. I once ordered my ticket far enough in advance that my mother admitted to being proud of me. And I was able to select any seat of my choosing. Rather than sitting like a duck between two human strangers, I gave myself leave to select a seat that only made me sit elbow to elbow next to one.
I noticed that you are subtly edging your elbow towards the center space of the armrest. I sanctioned for you to have the end, where I am not using it but you continue with such brazen forwardness.
Oh wait you stopped. I give leave to half and half. I shall take the back portion, close to the seat backs, since it’s the most comfortable and natural to my body at rest. You may have the front where one would grip in fear, if the plane were hurdling downward at a quick tempo.
Much like some of the back beats of the Lizzo song I’m listening to with my right earbud actually.
What a sneaky assault! You thought I was sleeping and began to push my elbow off. I don’t need all of this space, of course, but to maintain order, I’ll have to shove you aside and rest my arm more heavily on two-thirds of this forelimb support, while I cup my chin in repose.
I’m not comfortable, by the way. I’d rather rest and slump against the back of the seat, and not continue this battle but honor is at stake.
What an onslaught! You’re attempting to again!
In my position as middle seat, I will have to remove the armrest in question. No, no, you forfeited the right. And I will lift it, and hide it behind my shoulder as I rest. No, no, you cannot wake me. I am the final say in this matter, no matter how much you huff.
I understand that our districts are no longer at peace, and that I too have forfeited future permission to use the restroom with ease. If that does arise, I am willing to make an accord and validate use of the armrest again. But as it stands, I used the facilities before I boarded with the rest of my Bitches.
Now only if the elderly bawdy woman to my left wasn’t resting her leg inside my delineated under seat compartment. I made sure to pack lightly in order to maintain the foot space ahead of me, but this woman with her backpack at her feet and her roller luggage stored in an overhead bin is taking liberties.
And she should know I’m right.
