KBTV

KBTV::The Human Double Whopper - Part I

I have super high arches. I used to have to get my feet taped every day during the field hockey and lacrosse seasons – for 12 years – because of my overly-arcing soles. You see that was way before Orthotics. Today kids just go to the podiatrist, stick their feet in white gooey stuff and – poof! – two weeks later a set of soft to semi-flexible to rigid footwear inserts arrive in the UPS. Voila! No more Heel Spurs, Fasciitis, Tendonitis, Metatarsalgia, or Bunions!

Today my left arch feels like it’s about to collapse. I’m limping through Newark Airport when I decide that I’ve just had it. The pain is too severe … … I surrender. At the security checkpoint, I remove my four-inch Christian LeBoutain taupe leather pumps and never put ‘em back on. Comfort: 1, Vanity: 0. I continue my long waddle to the gate undeterred by the awkward stares of the other harried travelers passing by.

I nearly miss the plane. After finally slipping through the mouth of the plane, I turn to scan coach class. Oh my God. It looks like a Third World country.

I begin to carefully slither up (or is it down?) the aisle. Waddle waddle. Shove bang. Waddle slide. Pad pad. I finally look up at the overhead compartments. Aha…25-C.

My eyes begin to adjust to the glare. My eyes fall on the contents of seat assignment 25-A – a ruddy-faced, mid-fifty-ish, bloated man drinking Jack Daniels and coke. Wait … we hadn’t taken off yet? My eyes slide left to seat 25-B – housing a chubby, fat, portly blond with immense pink lips, who – I later found out – spoke no English. Next to her, in 25-C (my assigned seat) was what appeared to be a little Catholic schoolgirl set to enter the first grade – uniform and all.

I begin to explain to her and her mother (I assume?) that we have the same seat. I show my boarding pass to Mama Blondie with the Big Pink Lips. She simply shakes her head and shrugs. My left foot is throbbing. I am not in the mood. A flight attendant senses my agitation and approaches us. He’s rattling off paragraph upon paragraph of Spanish to Mama Blondie, Catholic School Girl and me. I quickly explain that I don’t understand; I don’t speak Spanish.

I’m not sure what happened next – it all went down so quickly. But suddenly the flight attendant – who more and more appeared to morph into Blondie’s accomplice of sorts – grabbed their massive carry-on bag, threw it in the overhead, unbuckled Catholic School Girl’s seatbelt and instructed her in this loud rat-tat-tat Spanish to move over.

She stands up. Then Over-ly Effete Flight Attendant points at the seat and in a faux-friendly tone asks me to “take my seat and settle in.” In the meantime, Blondie has, quite literally, pulled Catholic School Girl down on to her lap, and they’re now both belted into 25-B. The bells begin to ring in the cabin; the pilot comes over the PA system instructing everyone to sit down. We’re preparing for takeoff.

There I sit speechless – catatonic. The folks around me start to sympathize with my plight – traveling for three hours in coach belted in next to roughly 400 lbs of human flesh. No way. Not today. I shout out “Yo! Mr. Steward … this,” I point to the Human Double Whopper seated in front of me, “it ain’t happening.”

To be continued …

posted by rjoyner @ 9:27 PM