The Mile-High Club

Manners died in the same fiery crash as chivalry, I swear they did, you can't tell me differently. The lottery of overhead storage on planes is sort of the lottery of life; you never know what you're in for. What kills me is these folks that stretch the limits of carry-on capacity and try to force their bag into the tightest of spaces while creating a traffic jam down the aisle. As if that's not bad enough, the manner in which folks go about storing their things is absent of manners entirely. They reach over you, step on your feet, and jam their privates in your face, but the phrase "excuse me" never seems to enter their minds.

I've had an experience on my sojourn home, seems as if people are purposely trying to test my new Zen-like peace. First, there was the guy that turned his too large carry-on every which way but loose and couldn't fit in the cabinet, moved people's belongings around and still couldn't make it fit. In the process, he stepped on my S. Dots, elbowed a woman and kept the line flowing back down the tarmac.

After he finally checked the bag, I realized I was sitting next to two talkative females. For the next 90 minutes, I listened to these desperate housewives dish about their friends crumbling marriages and other suburban gossip all before they started downing drinks. Hey, I like a drink as much as the next person, but a Jack and Coke at 9:45am is a bit much for me, even if my body is telling me it's 12:45. These talking heads could be heard throughout the plane on their way to a spa, they even outtalked the safety announcements (I really needed to know how to put that mask on), they talked so much the woman in front of me looked back through the seats and gave me a piteous smile.

On my next to last nerve was an old dude that I'm going to call Napoleon because he could barely reach the overhead compartment, then was in a hurry to go nowhere fast, dude, you were in row 23 of 23, sit down! He attempted to push his way through, but got not further than row 21, my row. It was here that he saw that his attempt to deplane first was futile, so he needed a place to rest his ass…my shoulder! Another sad smile. If you're in the back of the plane, you know you have a 10 minute wait, so sit tight, if you wanted to be off quickly, you could've sprang for first class.

After an elbow, he got the hint that I wasn't a stool and decided to turn and face me, I'm sitting, you're short, bad move! If I tower over you, you must be tiny and when I looked down on the top of his head with my angry Black man look, he bust a move straight through the other passengers and didn't look back once, victorious smile on my face and my neighbor to the north. The final straw was the guy reading over my shoulder as I typed this while waiting to exit the plane, I carefully keyed in "I hate when nosy ass people read over your shoulder, I wonder if he wants to bite his tongue now?" implying that I was about to thrust my shoulder into his chin, definitely causing trauma to his tongue.

An hour later when I boarded the flight that will carry me to Philadelphia I was ready for war and it was on my face when I found that I would be sitting bitch in the middle for the next four and half hours. The woman with the window seat figured it out and the skinny teenager deferred to me because I was Black with tattoos anyway. So, a couple miles from Heaven I went into a cold world and didn't drop back down to Earth until we were making our descent and my final destination became closer than close.

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