The first leg of my journey to the New York business conference was a puddle jump from Bloomington to Detroit.
I’d volunteered to move from seat 2C (nearly the front row) to 14A (nearly the back row) as a kindness to the flight steward seeking a volunteer as part of a grand plan to help rebalance the plane. While loping toward the back I noted the man sitting in the rear in a pilot’s uniform, wondering if perhaps the strategy had backfired.
The new seat was something of a “pessimist special,” offering features like:
- floor-level window leakage of ankle-icing air
- the chap in the next seat with the armrest-consuming forearms reading a book about the famous London 20th century flu epidemic
- the cough-a-minute woman behind me
The crown jewel of the who’s-flying-this-thing section was the screaming infant across the aisle (perhaps missing her baby brother up in the cockpit).
Gratefully, I don’t subscribe to the loser’s club. When I hear a crying child, I tell myself that I might be sitting near a future U.S. President or other famous figure. Pretty cool.
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