Not cut out to be a middle-seat guy

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 04/12/2017 (3149 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

You don’t have to be a trained medical professional to know that I am not a middle-of-the-row kind of guy.

What with being the size of a major kitchen appliance, I am not designed to fit easily into any airline seat, let alone squeeze into the least-desirable spot in the middle of the row.

This is especially true because, based on recent flights I have endured, it feels as if modern airlines have reduced the size of their seats so that the only passengers they can accommodate comfortably are the mayor of Munchkinland and, possibly, the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

Air travellers such as myself, who measure in at somewhere around 6-4 and tip the scales north of 300 pounds, would likely be more comfortable checking ourselves in as oversized luggage.

The uncomfortable point I am making here is that I ended up trapped in the middle seat recently when I flew out to the West Coast after my mother’s sudden passing.

The optimum spot for me on any flight is the aisle seat, because when I invariably nod off and begin snoring at the decibel level of a heavy metal band, the flight attendants can easily wake me up by slamming a beverage cart into my head, which typically dangles in the middle of the aisle.

I’m also generally OK with sitting in a window seat because, even though I get a bit cramped, when I nod off my head will simply collapse onto the window, where a mix of condensation and perspiration will cause it to become stuck until we land at our assigned destination.

In the middle of the row, however, I am a travel disaster waiting to happen. It typically takes me about an hour to buckle up my seat-belt due to my, um, largesse in the community, so to speak.

In the middle seat, I essentially have to spend the entire flight with my arms wrapped tightly around my own body because, if I attempt to stretch my arms, my overly long wingspan will result in me impaling the eyeball of a seatmate with a plastic fork meant for the consumption of the complimentary in-flight snack.

So there I was the other week, in the middle seat, flying to the West Coast with my arms tightly wrapped around my body to ensure the safety of those travelling beside me, when, suddenly and without warning, I gave in to exhaustion and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Just to set the scene, the aisle seat was occupied by a young hipster-style guy who spent the flight listening to something on his headphones, while the window seat to my left was filled by an older woman who was the perfect airline passenger in the sense she was so tiny she easily could have fit into the overhead bin.

Before nodding off, which is what I tend to do when I fly, I recall noticing that the tiny passenger to my left was engrossed watching the recent remake of the movie King Kong on her size-large smartphone, which for some reason made me smile as I drifted off into Dreamland.

The problem is that, when I sleep sitting up, I tend to drift over to one side, and on this flight it appears I slumped over to my left and my fuzzy little head plopped onto the shoulder of the King Kong woman, who was caught by surprise and used the hand not holding her smartphone to briskly shove me back into place.

That is when I woke up with a start, squealed something incoherent, then realized where I was — and that apparently I had been using my seatmate as a pillow. I mumbled an apology and began reading some article about gourmet cheeses in the in-flight magazine.

The woman in the window seat just smiled politely and said something in a language I didn’t understand, then went back to watching King Kong on her smartphone.

In a serious effort to remain awake and not topple into one of the other people in my row, I used one eye to stare at the in-flight magazine and the other eye to take sneak peeks at what was happening to King Kong — OHMYGAWD! He’s swatting fighter jets out of mid-air — on the tiny woman’s cellphone.

Which, of course, is when I nodded off yet again, and my head lolled over to the left, prompting the King Kong woman to emit a loud squeak of warning, which caused me to sit bolt upright, hug myself even tighter, then reach overhead to adjust one of the air nozzles to blast me in the face with a stream of cold air in hopes that would prevent me from falling asleep again.

At the end of the flight, I gave the woman in the window seat my best sheepish grin to convey the concept that I am an idiot and should probably get more sleep.

In return, she gave me an understanding smile, then stuffed her smartphone in her pocket and we all trudged off the plane.

Fortunately, my sister was there to pick me up when we landed and, after I told her about falling asleep on the flight and flopping over like a dead fish, she advised me to sit in the passenger seat of her car, roll down the window and stick my head out in the breeze.

Why the airlines don’t let us do the same thing I’ll never understand.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca