Pick Up Line with a Twist

I guess it was to be expected….

Walking the trail, I see all sorts of people. Most folks greet you with a blink-nod. This is just the slightest nod of acknowledgement. The head is lowered in a nanosecond nod that is barely discernable to the naked eye. Runners are more apt to say something like, “Hey.” This is southern talk for “’Mornin’. Hope y’all are doing well today and, by the way, how’s the family?”

Here are some of the people I have met—passed—on the trail:

Flaming Senior – This lady is perhaps 80 years old. Dresses in bright yellow spandex short shorts with no underwear. Don’t ask. You can just tell. Shocking purple tank top. Don’t even ask. And flaming red hair that is totally out of control. She can outrun me any day.

Asian Belly Slapper – Beautiful petite lady. I see her regardless of the time of day I walk. Whether I go to the left or to the right, I pass her in the oncoming traffic. She slaps her belly with alternate hands in sync with each jogging footstep.

Distinguished Overachiever – A nice looking man in his early sixties. He runs 12 miles several times a week over the rough trail. I see him often and we speak occasionally at the end of the trail. I asked him about the effect this has on his knees (not the effect of talking to me – the stress from running!). He has to ice his knees down every single night. And yet, he keeps running.

One day, a man was jogging toward me. We exchanged polite blink-nods accompanied by, “Hey.” Now, I’ve got to tell you. This was one hot guy. Not that I notice such things. He was just a bit younger than me—probably in his mid-thirty’s. Did I mention he was ripped? We’re talking pecs and six-pack here. Not that I notice such things.

After he passed by, I heard his steps slow. Then I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. Rather than passing me, he fell into step beside me.

“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. (“Well, hel-lo, there!” I thought!)
“How ya doin’?” he asked.
“Great. And you?”
“I’m fine.”
(“You certainly are!” thought I.) But aloud I said, “That’s good.”
“So….do you walk the trail often?”
“A couple of times a week,” I answered.
“Do you always walk in the evening?”
(When would you like me to walk?) “No. I just walk whenever I can make the time.”
“Oh,” he said. Was it my imagination or did he sound disappointed?
“Can I ask you a question?”
I knew I was going to have to break his heart eventually, but he was just SO cute!
“Sure.”
“Are you married?”
Oh! My goodness! Was this really happening to me? Pinch me! I know I’m not dreaming because I’m not snoring! Do I have to tell the truth? Does it really matter? This is quite flattering. It took me ‘way too long to answer.
“Yes. I am.” (I’m thinking…and I have been since you were in kindergarten!)
“Oh,” he said. This time I’d swear he sounded genuinely disappointed.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, my mom died about four months ago and my dad is so lonely. I just thought maybe I could introduce you to him.”
“You know,” I replied, “I just passed a lady you might be interested in. If you run real fast, you'll be able to catch up with her. She’s wearing bright yellow spandex shorts.”

Kidnapped

I never claimed to be a genius. I was, however, a Bible-bred and raised Baptist preacher’s kid. I was outgoing, evangelistic and well versed in the Romans Road. I never met a stranger I didn’t invite to church.

“If you were to die tonight and stand before God, and He were to ask you, ‘Why should I allow you to enter my Heaven?’ what would you answer Him?” There is only one right answer to that question. Answer it incorrectly and I could unload the entire Plan in 7 minutes and 37 seconds. So don’t judge me too harshly for what happened.

It was the summer after my senior year in high school. I was at Disneyland with a group of church friends on a Saturday night. Remember the Tiki Hut? Animated fake birds drop from the ceiling and pop out of every corner totem pole singing songs and wisecracking jokes. I was seated on the front row of my section and facing me on the front row of the opposing section was a really cute guy. Every time I looked in his direction, he was looking in my direction. Each time our eyes met, we flashed increasingly brave – brazen – smiles. When my friends and I walked out, sure enough, he was waiting for me. He and his friend introduced themselves to me and my friends.

After a brief conversation, I invited them to attend our church the next evening. They said, “We’ll be there.”

And they came. I introduced them to the others in the youth group and to my parents as well. After church every Sunday night, all of us kids went to McDonalds. It was a ritual. This evening was no exception. So, naturally, we invited the new guys.

My new friends invited me to ride with them and show them the way. I was glad to hop in the middle and ride on the console of this late model silver Corvette. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I said, “Turn left.” He turned right. I laughed and explained that McDonalds was the other direction. He said he needed to go get gas. But he didn’t.

We traveled farther and farther from McDonalds and my close group of friends. I like to think that at some point, someone asked, “Where’s Joy and those new guys?” I was concerned when the two of them explained that their names were not Jeff and Brad as they had said. They pulled out their driver’s licenses and showed me their real names—not the names they had used to be introduced to my friends and parents. Turns out they were not 18 and 19 either. They were 24 and 25. I found this odd on several levels. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that I would not have a burger and fries that night.

Orange County in Southern California was part of a huge metropolis that covered many, many square miles. We drove in relative silence for a long time. For a while, I attempted mindless small talk. I even asked where we were going. Eventually, there was no traffic, no traffic lights and then, there were no streetlights. I could see only the occasional twinkling headlights or perhaps the lights from a secluded home in the sparsely populated hills.

The silence was good for praying. The time was right for praying. And praying became my main focus. I somehow remained calm as I suggested to Jeff and Brad—or Tom and Mark—or whoever they were—that I really needed to go home. They didn’t disagree. They just didn’t say anything at all.

Finally, the driver pulled the sporty Corvette over onto the gravel shoulder and stopped. No lights, No approaching headlights. No houses in sight. The driver put the car in park, turned off the headlights and leaned forward. Speaking past me to his friend, he asked, “What should we do with her?” I really didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. “Just take me home. Please, just take me home. I have to go to work tomorrow.” I continued to pray silently, praying I would not this very night stand before God answering His ultimate question…though I was certainly hoping I had the right answer. Somehow I remained calm though my heart was racing.

The guy on the passenger side got out and walked to the back of the car. Then he came back and got in again. “Let’s just take her home.”

And they did.

Critter Encounters

You know how much I enjoy my walks along the trail. These walks are therapeutic and give me much time for my thoughts. You would think that I am a nature-lover (which I am) and have a great love for all God’s creatures (which I do not). We have already established my great fear of snakes. I do enjoy seeing the many varieties of absolutely beautiful birds. Sparrows, jays, egrets, blue herons, cardinals, woodpeckers, finches. And though I have been personally pooped on by a sea gull, I do not hold all birds accountable.

My trail winds around a beautiful lake. Lakes are natural homes for ducks and geese. I love to see a mother lead her young family across land or water. They are so precious and well behaved. But add daddy Gander and you could have a problem. One day I paused to watch a beautiful flock of geese. They were snacking, talking, relaxing and generally having a nice day at the park. I was minding my own business, mind you.

Mr. Gander Goose looked my way as though to say, “Whachu lookin’ at?”
“Nothing,” said I with a smile.
“Then move it,” said he.
“It’s my lake, too,” I replied standing my ground.

This guy stretched his neck to its full extension at which point he was as tall as me. He spread his wings to their full expanse. He was much wider than me. He honked threateningly as he came toward me. I looked at him, he looked at me, our eyes locked in potential combat. In a physical battle, I knew he would be the victor after rearranging my face. Not sure I could outrun him, my quick wits and calm thinking gave me an idea. Ever so slowly I removed the cap from my water bottle.

Eyes still locked, I sent the telepathic message, “Back off, Buster, or I’ll throw this water on you.” He was smart enough to back off and go back to his family. I walked away victorious thinking to myself, “Did I just threaten a water fowl with water?” Man! I’m good!

On another day, as I approached Bridge 14, I heard a rapid scratching sound on the wooden planks. A look in that direction revealed a turtle scurrying across the span. Now, I’m not a big turtle fan. I generally think of them as slimy disgusting creatures. But this guy was out of the water, dry, and moving right along. I immediately thought of the “Tortoise and the Hare.” In my estimation, this fellow could win the race hands down. He was focused and movin' on. When I stepped on the bridge, he began to move even faster. My respect for this animal was increasing with each quick scratchy step he took. I thought, “If he can move this fast now, I wonder how fast he would move if I run up behind him and scare him.” Being quite the animal behavior experimentalist, I did just that. I ran up behind him and stomped loudly. He stopped. Dead still. I thought I might have literally scared him to death. Then he moved his head ever so slowly from the left to the right as though looking to see if anyone was watching. Only God and I saw as the circle of wetness spread out around him. I frightened him so badly, he peed his pants.

Did I feel bad? Nah!

Food in the Dressing Room

TASTEFULLY

FASHIONABLE

The next time you are out in public, take a few minutes for people-watching. We hear continually that America is suffering an obesity crisis. A casual observance will prove to you that this premise leaves no room for debate – like, say, global warming.

Let’s start with us girls. We have problems with numbers. I’m not talking about smart stuff like mathematics, physics and calculus. I’m speaking here about plain old simple numbers. Three digit numbers, max.

First, we cannot face the number that represents the measure of years we have existed on earth—our age. Second, we avoid an honest confrontation with the number that presents itself on our bathroom scales—our weight. And, finally, we struggle with the little tags sewn inside our garments—our dress size.

There was a time that, when our clothes no longer fit, we moved up to the next size. I will admit, it was with a strong reluctance, but we did it. We made the move, not only in the interest of comfort, but also for sake of appearances.

It seems both these reasons are no longer deemed to be more important than the magic number. You now see size 14 butts squeezed into size 8 jeans. Extra large upper bodies are barely covered with size Small mid-riff exposing tank tops; and 42-G jugglies are forced into 34-D bras.

However, as American women, we are resourceful. We have come up with the solution to our problem. No, the answer does not lie in “What Not to Wear.” Stacy and Clinton insist upon purchasing clothing that actually fits. What fun is that?

We decided instead to name these various bulges; thereby giving them credibility, and ultimately, acceptance.

Let me introduce you to the “‘shroom.” (You may have also heard this referred to as the “muffin top.”) “’shroom” is derived from the word mushroom. You, of course, see the similarities in the geometric design of these grocery items. You see this new look everywhere. It has become quite the rage. Almost anyone can have a ‘shroom. This fashion statement can be achieved even by those skinny-minnies who are determined to fit into a size 0. Here’s how it works: You buy low-rider jeans or shorts so small that you have to suck in air from your lower abdomen, lie down on the dressing room floor and have a friend help you fasten and zip them up. Your friend must then help you back to your feet (sometimes with the assistance of a crane). If gravity does its job correctly, you will have this bulge of skin (if you are very thin) or flab (if you are not) that hangs over the waistband of your garment. This is called a ‘shroom.’ It is acceptable now to not only sport a ‘shroom,’ but to wear it proudly exposed or covered by a thin tight T-shirt.

I would like to establish some additional food groups into our wardrobe.
Focaccia Bacon Bun – This treat of a term adds a touch of Parisian sophistication to the look that incorporates the boob bulge on top with the next layer tightly bound by a too-tight bra sitting on the resulting bulge supported by a ‘shroom. This is, of course, wrapped in a carefully selected tank top borrowed from a prepubescent 10 year-old brother. For an added touch of elegance, add short shorts that accentuate the prominent fullness of the thighs. Ah-ha! Let’s call these Buffalo Drumsticks.

Cottage Cheese – You know where I’m headed! There is no shame in cellulite, though the cosmetic industry has tried to make us think so. I say it’s time to fight back. Let’s name it for a respectable snack and end the torture so we can quit fighting and proudly display all 50 pounds of it. Cottage Cheese. Now that we have named it, let’s accentuate it. Wear those polyester pants so tight that no one could miss all the nooks and crannies. Throw in a thong for an extra lump. Better yet, just expose it. Don’t give up those short shorts and French cut bikinis! Cottage Cheese with ‘shrooms and Buffalo Drumsticks. Mmmm….makes one’s eyes water just to visualize it.

Remember the vanilla cake with chocolate swirls? I’m thinking we no longer need be embarrassed by stretch marks, varicose veins and plastic surgery scars. Let’s call these “Marbling” and make them fashionably exposable.

So, next time you are at the mall, take time to look at the walking fashion menus there. Perhaps you will be the one who names the next new look. Please send me your suggestion for the next “Tastefully Fashionable Selection.”

As for me? I’d like to suggest two of my favorite fashion rules:

* If it jiggles, cover it – loosely.
* Purchase a full-length mirror – and use it often.

I’ll write more later. My hair stylist is waiting to cover my roots in a deliciously tantalizing color we affectionately call “Warm Chocolate Carmel Latte.”

Tadpoles and Other Urban Myths

“Come here! Look at the tadpoles come up for air!”

I had just walked 2.2 miles wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair. I looked where Gloria was pointing in the mossy sludge pool. Tiny creatures were popping up breaking the surface of the water. Every couple of seconds, one would appear and disappear just as quickly.

We had agreed the night before that the five of us (gone to the beach for a girls-only mid-week retreat) would get up early and walk to the coffee shop for coffee. We missed the ‘early’ mark along with the cool morning breeze that may or may not have come with the early post dawn hours. But here we were, in a beautiful beach community. We enjoyed our iced drinks in the air-conditioned coffee shop. After listening to much whining and complaining, I alone volunteered to walk the 2.2 miles back to the house wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair to get the car and come back to pick up the others.

Walking alone for the 2.2 miles back to the house wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair, I had the opportunity to think about comments we hear and accept without question. I propose to you that you consider carefully the following Urban Myths.

Urban Myth #1 It’s about a mile and a half from here.

Beware when someone tells you – “It’s just a little ways from here. Let’s walk.” This doesn’t really bother me. (Remember, I’m a distance walker and walk 5 miles a few times a week.) This phrase is usually spoken by someone who aspires to walk—but seldom does—and assumes that if it only takes 15 minutes to drive the distance, it should only take 20 minutes to walk it. Double beware if they use a number to define the distance. Assume they are guessing and don’t have a clue how far it actually is.

Urban Myth #2 Exercise will make you lose weight.

Several years ago I bought a Richard Simmons “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” video. Night after night, I watched that video while eating my buttered popcorn and drinking my Coke. Didn’t lose a pound. I complained how my time could be better spent watching Magnum PI and Tom Selleck with my popcorn and Coke. I was informed that watching exercise was not the point; it would never work; I had to actually participate and DO what Richard does. I put my popcorn down and danced along. I tore the cartilage behind my kneecap (meniscus tear). The injury required surgery and put a stop to my aerobic endeavors.

With each year, I added a few pounds. I joined a gym. I worked out. Still the pounds accumulated. I hired a personal trainer. Week after week, he pushed. I huffed and puffed. He pushed harder; I sweated more. I felt great and weighed more than ever. “You’re building muscle mass. Muscle weighs more than fat.” My muscle mass was encased in a mass of fat. I quit.

One day it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something to this calorie theory (calories consumed – calories burned = FAT) and that if I kept eating massive amounts of food, I would continue to grow as a person. I decided to eat less – considerably less – and, like magic, the fat disappeared. I have concluded that I can exercise my little butt off, but if I eat like a horse, I will not lose weight. But that's just my experience.

Urban Myth #3 Tadpoles grow legs and turn into frogs.

I’ve got to be honest here. When Gloria said, “Look at the tadpoles. They’re coming up from the bottom of the pond to get air,” I was looking through over-heated contact lenses. I saw little somethings break the surface of the water. Gloria said they were tadpoles. I accept it because Gloria said it.

Walking alone for the 2.2 miles back to the house wearing flip-flops with 99 degrees of direct sunlight beating down upon my frizzy, humidity-tortured hair, it occurred to me—I have accepted this tadpole tale all my life without question. For several years in a row, my elementary teachers brought into class little jars of pond water filled with tiny sperm-looking creatures. Each teacher explained that these were tadpoles. In time, they would grow legs and turn into frogs. We took turns looking at the murky water, watching for legs to grow. Mrs. Lawrence got all excited one day because she said she could see legs growing on the tadpoles. I looked at the tadpoles. I looked at my legs and the legs of my classmates. I didn’t see anything resembling legs growing on the tadpoles.

Each year, the jar would disappear shortly after discovering the ‘legs.’ I never missed the jar. I never wondered what happened after that. Not one time, not ever, did I see frogs in those jars. Never. If seeing is believing, I’m just not sure that tadpoles grow legs and turn into frogs.

Urban Myth #4 Put this on your hair and it won’t get frizzy.

A Day Worth Changing

I remember reading a play by Thornton Wilder called “Our Town.” The Third Act takes place in a cemetery. Dead people remember and talk about their lives and how they arrived at the end. I agree it may be a classic piece of literature, but it’s a stretch. Emily Webb who died in childbirth wants to go back and revisit a day in her life. She is advised not to pick a special day…just an ordinary day. Special days were too disappointing. If I remember correctly, she was sad to see that her day of choice – her twelfth birthday – was, well, disappointing.

I asked some friends, “If you could go back to one day in your life, which one would it be?” Immediately, the days we all recalled were days that were marked by tragedy or crisis or death. Or weddings—this was a popular one, but not for the reasons you might assume! I suppose good days are ordinary days. It seems there are few days that truly stand out in our minds.

I was six years old. It was summer time. We lived in Cabool, Missouri. Our house was very small; just four rooms and a bathroom. I seem to remember the house was built up on piers. Not high. Just open. You could see under the house. It had gray asbestos shingle siding. On the back of the house was a wooden porch with no railing. It was pretty high if you were very short. I was afraid to jump off it, but often did anyway. (Today we would add railings and call it a deck.)

We, of course, kept the windows open and the breeze blew the sheer billowy curtains as it entered through the front of the house and exited through the screen door on the back of the house. It then blew gently across the porch where Mom washed our clothes in a wringer washer before drying them on our wind/solar powered clothes dryer (also known as the clothes line).

We were poor. Seriously. Not poverty poor, but close. However, Mom and Dad purchased a new bedroom suite when we moved to Cabool. I remember it had a gray wood-grained finish. They kept it for many years. The headboard was a bookcase style with sliding doors on each side. The dresser had black detailing carved into the fronts of the drawers. The chest of drawers (‘chester drawers,’ as we called it) matched and was taller than me.

We had lived there just a short time—days, weeks, months—time is meaningless to a six-year old. Mom shrieked, “Joy Elaine! Michael Lee! Get in here. Right this minute!” It’s one of those times you really know it is not in your best interest to move quickly to ‘get in there’ but know you must or the already bad circumstances could deteriorate even further very fast.

As I entered the room, I observed that Mom had this familiar look on her face and her hands on her hips. You know ‘the look.’ Her eyes were blazing, cheeks flaming, hair standing on end. All mothers develop this persona. There, in middle of Mom’s new dresser, was a big shiny blood-red spot with an open bottle tipped over in the middle of it. Yes. It was nail polish. Mom’s new red fingernail polish, oozing grotesquely over her brand new gray dresser. The mirrored reflection made this scene twice as horrifying.

“Who did this? Joy Elaine, did you do this?” I hung my head and shook it ever so slowly.

“Mike, did you spill this nail polish?” The four-year-old hoodlum also denied the deed.

“Joy Elaine, I’m going to ask you one more time. And this time, don’t lie to me. Did you spill the fingernail polish? Tell me the truth.”

“No, Mama, I didn’t spill it. I haven’t even been in your room.”

“I’m giving you one more chance to tell me the truth. Mike wouldn’t lie to me.” You see the obvious assumption in these statements.

“Mike, you go in the other room. Your sister’s in big trouble for lying.”

What happened to the rules of justice here? What about innocent until PROVEN guilty?

Spanking was not frowned upon in those days. In fact, it was much the fashion. (I have always been into fashion it seems.) I was spanked soundly all the while denying my guilt for spilling the polish. Then I was spanked for lying with a demand that I tell the truth or get spanked again. Then I was spanked again because I still would not admit to having committed the act.

Remember, I was a child. I didn’t know any better. As an adult, I would have explained that the alternate remedies to this situation were mutually exclusive. I could tell the truth OR I could admit to the deed, but not both. Perhaps I should have just lied and admitted guilt to stop the pain. Then I could have tended to the details when the circumstances were a bit cooler. I didn’t understand that then. I stupidly kept telling the truth…remember, I was only six. This was very confusing to a six-year-old.

That afternoon at 5:00 while eating supper—It would be several years before we began to eat ‘dinner’ at 6—Mom related the incident to my Dad. Mike giggled. Dad asked what was so funny. Mike, with his adorable lisp, said, “Thissy didn’t ‘pill it. I did.” Everyone found this funny—except Sissy.

Now, all these years later, we laugh about it. Mike still laughs the loudest while pounding the table and throwing his head back. But it wasn’t funny then, and it wasn’t funny the next day…or the next year.

If I could go back and live a day over again and change the outcome, I would pick that day. I was too young to learn that life is not fair.

It’s still not all that funny.

Trophy Mom

Kids, listen up! This is for you.

(If you are reading this and you are not one of my children, please feel free to read on. If your children are still young, you will face this dilemma in the future. If you are a parent of adult children, perhaps this will serve as an inspiration to you as well...or it may make you smile!)

You left home a long time ago. It was the right thing to do.

I carried each of you inside my body for nine months. I spent a total of over two years and three months of my life being pregnant. I nursed you. I fed you. I rocked you. I sat up nights with you—many times, all night long with no sleep at all. I proudly wore your spit-up on the shoulder of my little black dress. I kissed your skinned knees and made them well. I wiped your snotty noses and cleaned your messy boo-hineys. I kissed away your tears and mended your broken hearts. I took you to sports practice. I cheered you to victory. I washed your clothes. I bought your clothes. I cut your hair. I made your beds. I cleaned your rooms. I occasionally even cooked for you. And yet, you left home a long time ago. It was the right thing to do. It was your decision. It was a good one.

During all those years, I never complained. Ok, I complained sometimes.

Throughout those years, you brought home trophies. Lots and lots of trophies. All three of you brought home trophies. Remember how proud we were of those trophies? Do you remember how meaningful it was when you were champions, MVPs, or team captains? Or just participants? It didn’t matter. You completed the season. You got a trophy….and another…and another. Our house was filled with trophies. Big trophies. Little trophies. Everywhere. And plaques.

I doubt you even notice now, but those trophies are not in our house anymore. Not one of them. I take that back. One serves as a doorstop in the bathroom upstairs. The little tree-shaded cottage on the back of our estate is filled with trophies. And license plates. Your first license plates are there: ENGR2B, JAIREMY, SAUCY. They are all there. The cottage is a museum of memorabilia of you—my children. Memories of times gone by. Memories of my little children and your achievements and accomplishments. Memories of happy times. Memories of times that will never be again.

Kids, you’ve got 30 days. Come and get that junk or pick it up on the curb.

MY Space

I’m not talking here about some social structure in cyberspace where you define, not who you are, but who you would be, not given the constraints of who you are. I’m not thinking of an outer dimension where little people with bulging eyes and crystal skulls abduct powerless humans and transform them into robots. I’m talking about MY space. That fifty-nine and a half cubic feet of air space surrounding my body that is MY space and goes where I go. It surrounds me like an invisible shield and is ideally not to be penetrated by anyone unless invited and approved by me.

Remember trips in the car with your parents and siblings? Adults in the front seat, kids in the back. Dad draws the invisible line that follows the path of the upholstery stitching. My Dad did that. My brother and I were not to cross that line with any part of our bodies, souls or spirits. We were not to look across it, speak across it or breathe over it. This, naturally, made it impossible for my hoodlum brother to resist. Keeping my eyes straight ahead as instructed (of course), I could sense his fingertips crawling to the line of demarcation. I could feel his eyes watching to see what I would do about his encroachment into my space. When his fingers crossed that line, I could endure the torture no more. I slugged him. He screamed, “Sissy hit me for no reason.”

“Dad, he crossed the line!” “Did not!” “Did, too!” I could never win this game. How could I have seen his dirty little fingers come over the line if I was looking straight ahead? I just knew. I just knew.

I don’t appreciate people coming into my space uninvited. I don’t like close talkers. You’ve met them. These are the people who stand far closer to you than convention allows. Then they lean in toward your face while talking directly into your nostrils. No! Do not do this. Not to me, not to anyone. This is unacceptable behavior. If you see me take a step back, don’t follow. Stay where you are and talk to me from there. Got it? I’d hate to have to slug you.

If you sit beside me on an airplane, I can accept that I have to give a little and allow you into my space. But you really annoy me when you claim the seat separator as your own. That slender piece of metal that comes down between your seat and mine is not an armrest. It is a physical barrier, put there through the wisdom of the designer who obviously played the invisible line game and lost as I did. It is meant to separate your space from mine. Do NOT put your arm on it or let your elbow hang over it into the space on my side. I paid good money for my seat and all the allotted air space that goes with it. While I’m at it, I want all my knee space. Do NOT assume that you can spread your legs out all over my side. Keep your knees and feet together on your own side. I do.

While I’m on the subject—if you need a seat and a half, go ahead and pay for it. Don’t assume that I am willing to share my seat with you. If your big butt doesn’t fit on your seat—and your seat alone—buy two or move to first class. I don’t like having to scrunch up in the other half of my seat and still be forced sit with your flabby thigh and jiggly arm sweating against me. This is not only very uncomfortable for a trip of any length, it just isn’t right on many levels.

Did I hurt your feelings? Come here. Let me give you a hug.