I’m away on my honeymoon! Yay me and also my new husband! In true form, however, the comedy has already begun. You can read some of my other open letters here, here, aaaand here.
Dear Guy Sitting in Seat 22D on the Flight to Chichago,
Listen, I get it. We’re both stuck in this whirling metal tube, headed towards Chicago, possibly beyond. The flight was delayed and you’re obviously tired and frustrated but please, buddy, just… stop with the seat. Back and forth, back and forth. You’re not on a see-saw. This is not a rocking chair, nor is it a fairground game where the end goal is to rock your seat as much as possible so you reach vomiting velocity. There is a little girl behind me who I was fully prepared to engage in a foot-kicking war, and she’s been golden. You hear that? Five year old Terry Lynn is better behaved than you.
Why these seats recline I will never know. Everyone hates it when the seat in front of them go back. As soon as the first jerkwad decides he’d rather be at a slight angle, you know, so that way his snoring gets that really lovely wet smacking sound, the guy behind him is bound to do it as well. Plane seats are basically mutually assured destruction of the kneecap variety. Oh and that window shade you put down? That is my window shade. It is on my row and I am in the window seat. You don’t want the sunshine in your eyes, move your damn chair up.
Now, I am a reasonable person. After all, I am Canadian. However it must be noted that by viciously rocking your seat in such a manner as if you are suffering from a grand mal seizure not only batters around my tablet which never did anything to you, but also causes the cup of sad, half-assed coffee to wibble and wobble. I’m not sure if you noticed because the person sitting in front of you has some basic human decency and has not reclined her chair, but the more you recline yours, the more my coffee cup, specially made to fit these tight spaces, inches towards a precarious end. And trust me, if this coffee spills on my husband or my tablet, you will be getting an earful.
I’m a gentle human being. I have very few requests from life aside from “Dear life, please don’t kill me okay thanks.” But one small thing I’d like is a wee bit of consideration so that when, during this ungodly flight to Chicago, I can safely take out and use my tablet without the keyboard hanging halfway off of the tray. And yes, I am frequently kneeing the back of your seat. No, it is not out of malice. I simply have zero room for functioning. It’s not like I have the knees of Andre the Giant. These are tiny knees but you, much like the other 89% of the plane, are in the economy section which means unless you and I are composed entirely of day old spaghetti, we are simply going to have to accept that there is a finite amount of room and you are not deserving of spreading your vast, thining-haired wealth around anymore than I am or else I would climb onto the back of your seat like a cat and bat at your skull like a mouse for the next two hours and forty-five minutes.
Kathleen Sawisky, Esq. Seat 23D.