1
Olivia
There’s nothing like a wild sprint through the airport to remind me of how wildly out of shape I am.
People dramatically get out of my way as I jog, skip, and hop my way through the crowd to get to my gate. My first flight was delayed so we landed late and now I have to get from Terminal A to Terminal C as quickly as possible. There was the train, of course, but as soon as the doors opened, I bolted. I’m not going to miss my connection; I still have thirty minutes. I am, however, a nervous flyer who has an almost obsessive need to be at the gate early.
So here I am, flailing and rushing to what has to be the last gate in this terminal, all because I’m a weirdo.
Still, once I come to a halt at the gate and see there are plenty of seats and I am indeed on time, I allow myself a solid minute to catch my breath.
I did, after all, essentially just run a marathon while being comically out of shape.
My breakfast of coffee, a cake pop, a bag of pretzels, and a Coke probably didn’t help either.
After my minute of bending at the waist with my hands on my hips and letting everyone know that I ran there without actually saying a word, I casually turn and find the nearest restroom. Luckily there’s no line and after I take care of business and step out of my stall, I startle at my reflection.
Good Lord, Liv. You look like the poster girl for what not to wear. Ever.
Okay, but at four a.m. when I was getting ready, the leggings, oversized hoodie, and my messy bun looked cute. Now, after running across the monstrosity that is the Denver airport, I look borderline psychotic. It takes a solid five minutes before I feel like I don’t look like a total troll, and when I turn to leave, I walk directly into someone.
“Oh! Sorry!” I say before looking up and meeting a furious face.
She mutters the word bitch before stepping around me and heading into a stall.
Normally, this would fluster me, but she’s the same woman who called me a bitch earlier on my first flight because I refused to give up my seat to her entitled self. I paid for a first-class seat. I hate flying, and the only way I survive it is by upgrading and buying the window seat.
“Will you switch seats with me?” she asked. No “please,” no “would you mind,” just a blunt statement, almost like she wasn’t really asking, but telling me.
“Um…I’m sorry. No,” I politely said. “I need the window seat.” I was about to put my earbuds in when…
“So do I,” she replied stiffly.
That’s when I started looking for a flight attendant. “Look, no offense, but…I paid for this seat, so…”
“I asked for the upgrade when I checked in and was assured I’d be assigned one at the gate.”
“And were you?”
Her look was openly hostile now.
“Why do you specifically need my seat?” I continued, feeling just as hostile.
Instead of giving me a reason, all she said is, “I’m in row fourteen E.”
Middle seat, economy.
Hard pass.
“Sorry,” I said, putting one earbud in. “I’m not moving back to economy after I paid for this seat.” I turned away and placed the other earbud in, but not before I heard her call me a bitch. Oddly, I was okay with it.
Maybe my oversized Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, leggings, and sneakers made me look like I didn’t belong in first class, but I believe in being comfortable.
No sooner had I started to relax again than someone else was right there in my face asking the same question.
Do people just not pick the seats they want anymore and then expect the masses to accommodate them?
This time, it was a couple with three kids and they were all looking at me.
