Planes Are Definitely Getting Smaller, Right?

A new thing I recently started hating: plane rides.

While I’m willing to concede that I may have gained a few pounds over the years, I also think they made the plane seats smaller. Much smaller. 

Since most of my recent flights have been to New York City, I end up on those little puddle jumpers, which I hate anyway, now I have to contend with the fact that my butt barely fits in there and when you add in the seat belt, it’s like a torture device. Allow me to illustrate.

My last trip to New York City was about five months ago when I was going to interview for a job. Normally when I travel, I try to wear the most comfortable clothes I own. Not pajamas. I do not wear pajamas out of the house, although I realize that people do that now. (See, once again, my point is proven that people are idiots.) But still, I try to be comfortable. 

Except this time. 

I was going there and coming back in the same day, so I had to be dressed for my interview. Also, I bought a new suit, cause it’s always a good idea to be wearing brand new clothes when you are going to be stuck in them all day long. So I was in my new suit (but no nylons, thank goodness, because I had just been on vacation and my legs were quite tan), and flat shoes, carrying with me these new high heels. High heels. I never wear high heels and these were new skinny heels. Very high. It seemed like a good idea somehow. 

I only fell about three times. 

In Times Square. 

The last time, I grabbed hold of my about-to-be-new-boss’s arm and nearly pulled her down with me. Yep, I’m that classy.

So, back to the plane. By the time I headed back home, I was hot, uncomfortable and kind of full from lunch. The new clothes felt tight and restrictive. I was squeezed into this little plane seat, on the inside, and we were stuck there for a while. The seat belt barely went around me and was cutting off circulation to the lower half of my body. 

The plane didn’t take off right away for some unknown reason.  We just sat there on the hot runway tarmac and the air wasn’t on. I started to panic. I couldn’t breathe. I kept reaching up to turn that little air thingy on, but nothing was happening. The woman sitting next to me seemed way too close. I had to keep forcing myself to take calming breaths, because otherwise, I was gonna unsnap the seatbelt, push the chick out of my way and run, screaming, off the plane. 

Unlike that flight attendant guy, I didn’t plan on getting drunk first and using the emergency shute, although I wasn’t completely ruling it out, either. 

The one thought that kept me in my seat was that if I did completely whig out and have to be removed from the plane, I had to do this all over again, only later. I mean, I had to get home somehow and, short of renting a car and driving for 8 hours, which I wasn’t prepared to do, it was better to stay where I was.

I tried to convince myself that as soon as the plane took off, it would get better. The flight was only an hour, after all, if only we would get off the freaking runway and in the air!  But I wasn't feeling too confident.

I spent the entire hour plus of the flight taking calming breaths and trying not to panic. It was a close call.

My sister has been talking about taking a trip to NYC this Spring.

I'm thinking we should rent a van.