What I Am
The stewardess made me dislike her. She, with her done-up hair and tightened tan but wrinkled face, put me in a situation that required it.
"There’s a gentleman who is nearly 2 meters who was hoping one of you might be willing to trade seats with him," she dared to say.
Immediately I flashed to G and all his leg, squished up in a window seat on a trans-Atlantic flight and I knew what I should do. All the tall people I’ve ever known came to mind in a flash. But this giant remained nameless, faceless-and what’s 2 meters anyway?
I’d gotten to the airport hours early and had been rewarded with an exit row seat--earned it, really. And it’s not like I had that much room, I reasoned. There was the bulkhead--part of the plane’s door--that stuck out in front of me so that I actually had less room than in a normal seat unless I put my legs out at an angle, all the while careful not to encroach on my neighbor’s space too much. He wouldn’t have wanted my seat anyway, I told myself.
The stewardess' response--that it was my seat, my decision--could have let me off the hook, but it didn't. The Dutch woman next to me hadn’t give up her seat and I wonder if it haunted her like it did me. I felt that tried and true American feeling of guilt. I was disappointed in myself, but also unwilling to sacrifice my own comfort.
In less than 30 seconds I had new insights into what Kind Of Person I am and I wasn’t satisfied. I had only one thing to do: blame the person responsible--the stewardess, of course.
"There’s a gentleman who is nearly 2 meters who was hoping one of you might be willing to trade seats with him," she dared to say.
Immediately I flashed to G and all his leg, squished up in a window seat on a trans-Atlantic flight and I knew what I should do. All the tall people I’ve ever known came to mind in a flash. But this giant remained nameless, faceless-and what’s 2 meters anyway?
I’d gotten to the airport hours early and had been rewarded with an exit row seat--earned it, really. And it’s not like I had that much room, I reasoned. There was the bulkhead--part of the plane’s door--that stuck out in front of me so that I actually had less room than in a normal seat unless I put my legs out at an angle, all the while careful not to encroach on my neighbor’s space too much. He wouldn’t have wanted my seat anyway, I told myself.
The stewardess' response--that it was my seat, my decision--could have let me off the hook, but it didn't. The Dutch woman next to me hadn’t give up her seat and I wonder if it haunted her like it did me. I felt that tried and true American feeling of guilt. I was disappointed in myself, but also unwilling to sacrifice my own comfort.
In less than 30 seconds I had new insights into what Kind Of Person I am and I wasn’t satisfied. I had only one thing to do: blame the person responsible--the stewardess, of course.
posted by Jill at 9:21 PM
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