experiences from row 10
I visited my family in Florida this past weekend, which meant two flights up and down the east coast. I booked this trip weeks in advance, and at the time did not realize that I would be flying during Easter. Do you have a problem flying with little kids? If so, Easter is not the travel day for you, trust me on that one. Luckily, I have no such grudge against the young, because I used to be a kid myself, and I can’t promise that I was always well behaved. It would be hypocritical of me to get mad at kids who don’t know any better.
Whenever I fly I make a deal with God. God is allowed to inconvenience me in any way imaginable—an obese neighbor, a delayed flight, a rough landing, a screaming child—as long as I get to my destination alive. It is, I think, a generous deal that gives God enough wiggle room to satisfy His more sadistic urges without killing me. This has thus far worked out very well for me. iPods help screen out the kids, too.
Even for someone of my petite build coach can be a cramped experience, so on this trip I decided to try sitting in the emergency exit rows. These two rows come with more leg room and a little added responsibility: if we make an emergency landing, it is my job to rip the emergency door from the plane’s fuselage and create an exit for the panicked passengers. The imagined pressure of such a scenario usually keeps these seats free until the plane is nearly full. I can’t understand why. Depending on how you define “water landing,” there have been somewhere between zero and seven successful water landings in the entire history of commercial aviation. If something goes terribly wrong with our plane it can only end two ways. Either it will be a problem within the control of the crew, and therefore my ability to detach a door is unlikely to really matter, or it will be an unmitigated disaster that ends with the plane shattering like a cheap ceramic cup against the Earth, detachable doors hurtling away from the impact at sixty miles per hour.
What I’m saying is, we’re all going to die anyway, so why not enjoy a little extra leg room while you’re still here?
Extra leg room, like any of life’s little bonuses, comes at a price. If you’re flying business class, it means you’ve got the money. If you’re in the emergency row, it means you can speak English, are capable of foisting the door, and are at least fifteen years of age. Here’s where it got interesting for me on the trip back to Boston.
“Excuse me, sir, are you at least fifteen years old?”
Surprised, I turned to look at the flight attendant, who could not have been much older than me. “I’m twenty-four,” I said. I don’t think I did a good job hiding my indignation.
“Are you serious?” she said. Serious as a frakking heart attack, lady. I remember the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, thank you very much.
“Could I please see your ID?”
At this point I almost wanted to jump out of my seat. “Yup! I’m fourteen! I was born in 1993! Sorry!” It was a full flight and I think it would have been amusing to make her play musical chairs. My overwhelming desire for an expedient flight prevailed over my desire to mess with the universe, however, and I handed over my driver’s license (which, for those of you keeping score, I received back in 2000). After looking at it, then at me, and then at it again, she politely handed it back. She then glided down the aisle, her eyes lingering on me with suspicion, as if I were a wood nymph or a leprechaun.
I suppose it’s nothing to be that mad about. I’m sure that twenty years from now I’ll thank the heavens for my youthful looks. And I still got my leg room. Everybody wins!
Hahahaha. My older sister is 26 and she gets this kind of treatment all the time. When we were at my younger sister’s HS graduation (this was four years ago), one of my little sister’s friends asked my older sister if she was going to be attending the high school next year. This cracked us all up, especially because my older sister was standing next to her fiance.
That cracked me up. I also have an older sister who also gets this treatment, though she’s 29, and it was a grocery cashier quite a bit younger than her who wouldn’t let her buy alcohol even after she showed her her ID. A manager’s intervention was required. The worst I’ve had it was getting carded for an R-rated movie when I was 22. My friend Stephen, who’s a month older than me, was with me and did not get carded. He was quite offended.
My very first date with my high school girlfriend of two years was a bit embarassing because of age. She was a few years older than me and fully legal to see R-rated movies. I was still well under the age limit, and therefore, I could not escort her to a proper date movie. We ended up seeing Toy Story 2. It worked out for the best but there’s nothing like being shot down by an annoying employee (ticket salesperson at the cinema or flight attendant) who is your same age. Being from the Northeast, I typically ask those annoying people if they remember Hurricane Bob. If they get a questioning look on their face, I proceed to read each line of my license to the them very, very loudly.