After having tolerated a healthy hour of the small mammals up front, I was desperate to move.
After getting the flight attendant to spill the secret beans about the numerous empty seats in the back, I began my trek to paradise- possibly the smartest thing I have 'successfully' executed in my life.
I quickly stood up and began my swift walk down the narrow aisle.
It was in the seconds following this moment when I spotted my first obstacle, the beverage cart (BC.)
Having a sister as a flight attendant has proven extremely useful for many reasons.
Aside from the obvious $520.00 round trip ticket to Greece, I have been graced by her numerous stories on how she handles every possible scenario she is presented with on a daily basis.
Possibly the most common of these scenarios, BC traffic.
Her solution? To run over as many toes as possible as the 'important' passengers attempt to squeeze between the seat and cart in the most awkward and tumultuous of manners.
Having no desire to lose any of my lower appendages, I plopped a seat next to gawky Mr. 1973.
After an unrushed five minutes, I saw the BC had made it's way back to it's comfy little nook to reload on soft drink ammunition.
I began to stand up when an earthquake began.
Yes, an earthquake on a plane- completely possible.
.03 seconds later the pilot announced to return to your seats and buckle up A-SAP.
It was too late for me.
I had already spotted 2, possibly 3 quiet and empty seats all right next to one another.
There was no way of knowing how long they would be on the market, and there was no way I was settling with Mr. 1973, so I made a move.
The flight attendant instantly began shouting at me to sit down, prefacing the command with a simple question:
"Do you want to get killed?!"
Oh, rhetoric.
She then proceeded to perse her 105 year old lips at me, and attempted to kill me with her mind.
After having failed, she watched me slide into my paradise.
I instantly marked my territory.
And by "marked my territory," I mean, I fastened my Raj scarf into a distinct turban atop my head, and installed an extendable front flap to cover just my eyes- in hope that those around me would fear me.
I then proceeded to Batos Burrito myself inside of a complimentary "never before washed" blanket, and then sprawled across the 3 empty seats of the very last row.
There were originally only 2 seats, but the 6 yr. old Grecian boy (who once occupied seat #3) sensed my fatigued wrath soon after my arrival, and instantly moved to sit next to his white friend after I had commenced the turban fastening.
I was content.
I was moved in.
