MY GIG AS A SHORT TERM CONTORTIONIST

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Things proceeded quite normally on yesterday’s almost 4,000 mile flight from Edinburgh, Scotland to Chicago, Illinois, until the guy in front of me decided to “do a 45” (degree angle) with the back of his seat; completely oblivious (or completely uncaring) about the comfort of the fella (yours truly) immediately behind him. Talk about personal space, by this point the man was almost lying in my lap. (In any other circumstance the nearness of his physiology to my own would have seemed almost obscene).

By this time my legs were tucked almost under my chin, and I was close to becoming eligible for my Contortionist’s Permit. Try as I might, I could not lay my seat tray out flat against my waist in order to compile an outline for this particular blog, and the results of my writing looked more like Swahili than English.

Bad enough that today’s airlines jam two pounds of human flesh into every conceivable one pound space on the seating floor of their aircraft. But to make things worse, members of the flying public are allowed to, at will, infringe on the personal space of their fellow flying passengers surrounding them.

Since I was on the inside of three seats and next to the aisle, I leaned my head to the right and peered over my abuser’s shoulder. From my vantage point, the little fella had just about as much leg room as the president is afforded on Air Force One.

Now I considered a bit of “pay back” and briefly reflected on the best way to exercise some well-deserved retribution; which led to some interesting options.

1. I could throw my right leg up on his arm rest, and inform him that if he was going to deny me leg room, I would deny him arm room. 2. I could jam my knees hard against the back of his seat, and bore a hole in his spinal column. 3. I could “do a Henry” (my father would have never tolerated this) 4. I could throw my seat back into the lap of the lady behind me, and provide myself some sweet relief, (or) 5. I could suffer in silence for the next seven hours.

Suddenly, my abuser shifted his seat a quarter foot closer, I could no longer see my feet, and I thought I heard my left knee pop. The movie screen was so close now, I could just make out the manufacturer of Queen Victoria’s costume in her neck label.

Dear readers, I neglected to tell you. I chose the most charitable of my options.

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but if by chance the adherents of that religion happen to be right, I want to come back as the president of United Airlines. My first order would ring the death knell of adjustable aircraft seats.

But with my luck I would come back as a low paid contortionist.

by Bill McDonald, PhD