30,000 feet, five hours of uninterrupted bliss

I boarded the plane to Phoenix this morning with blood shot eyes and an impatient, and emptied spirit from six days of conferencing in Boston. While the convention itself was remarkable (on a variety of levels), what it didn’t offer was sleep or time to yourself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned the value these two factors have in the recipe of my happiness. 

So I was a tad edgy.

I was ready to be back in Arizona, albeit for just under 24 hours to hop on another flight to Arkansas. I’d identified my 15A window seat, and gestured to my already seated row mates in 15B and 15C to let me in. 15C didn’t look pleased to be getting up, which was confusing since he looked a lot like Santa.  Well, a Boston version of Santa in Red Sox gear. My carryon bag was ridiculously heavy, and to make matters worse, I had selected a silk blouse with sharp buttons on the shoulder. The strap was no doubt creating a permanent imprint into my thin, alcohol-flushed membrane. Just as I began the awkward “duck and two-step shuffle maneuver” to get into my window seat - the whole time desperate to lighten my load - a woman behind me got my attention.

“Excuse me, you.  Um… that’s my husband in your row -- 15C [Santa]. Would you mind trading me seats? I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble since we’re both window seats…” She asked the question reticent; like there was a good chance I’d not accept her offer.

“No problem,” I returned. Whatever. Just move. I scooted back out of my row and into a completely empty one behind me. Congratulating myself on the luck of the situation, I overheard the woman in the middle seat ask this woman if she wanted to sit by her husband then, since although they’d arranged to now be seated in the same row, they were split by 15B. The Santa husband, silent until this time, piped up with an emphatic NO. Surprised, I looked up at him and waiting for the laughter to follow. Nobody laughed, and his eyes were hard as they met mine.

And that was that. The woman who’d negotiated her new row casually side-stepped right into her new seat, followed by a puzzled middle-seater, and an angry Boston Santa husband.

A girl did end up coming to my row, but we were blessed with an empty middle seat the whole ride across the country. She spent most of the five-hour flight openly reading 50 shades. I sat relishing in my solitude at the expense of a dysfunctional marriage.