By: Jamie Collins
I can’t believe it. Please don’t sit here. Please, not next to me. As I maneuver awkwardly down the aisle, I avoid eye contact with everyone around me. It feels like I’m navigating a runway designed for supermodels or those fortunate enough to eat whatever they want without a second thought.
After an eight-year hiatus from flying, I found myself on a plane, carrying 100 extra pounds from my post-baby life—pounds I don’t exactly flaunt. I thought I was prepared, draping myself in an oversized hoodie and comfy black yoga pants. My friend and I boarded late because we decided to grab breakfast—how typical!
Two seats were left: one beside two petite women in their early twenties, excited for a weekend in Vegas, and another between a businessman and a guy who was at least my size. Naturally, I opted for the row with the fresh high school graduates.
Honestly, I had to squeeze into my seat, forcing my hips under the armrests. The businessman next to me was wrestling with his seatbelt, while I attempted to fasten mine too. After several tries, I thought, “If this plane goes down, this seatbelt isn’t going to save me.” So, I tucked the ends under my hoodie pocket and flashed a polite smile at the flight attendant as she passed by.
My not-so-toned (let’s call it “grandma bat-winged”) arm dangled into the aisle, and it seemed like every passenger who walked by had a personal vendetta against me. They bumped into me, looking surprised, as if my arm wasn’t clearly invading their space. I smiled back, as if to say, “No worries—I have two arms, and this one could use a little slimming.”
When people talk about “leg room” on a flight, they usually mean space for their knees. But let me tell you, Mr. Southwest Airlines, my thighs and hips are part of that equation too! I’m going to need you to rethink the dimensions of those seats you’ve designed for infants!
This flight felt like the longest 4.5 hours of my life, rivaling even the discomfort of labor. I was restless, tired, and felt guilty every time the young woman next to me shifted in her seat, knowing my hip was encroaching on her space. Then, a thought hit me like a ton of bricks. The girls beside me were pouring tiny liquor bottles into their complimentary Cokes, and I realized I was old enough to be their mother! Their actual mom was behind them, happily packing snacks with smiley faces for them to enjoy.
When did I age so much? Am I not still 22 in spirit?
The businessmen began offering unsolicited advice on what to do in Vegas. Their first suggestion? A ventriloquist show. There it is, folks. Apparently, we looked like two grandmothers planning a trip to the world’s largest ball of yarn.
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In summary, flying while feeling self-conscious about my body was a unique experience that reminded me of the realities of age and how we perceive ourselves.