The Perfect Dismount

Once I was settled into my new seat on the airplane I had a new problem to contend with. (God was not yet finished with me). The not so petite woman sitting in the aisle seat refused to budge when I needed to use the lavatory. It really took some manoeuvring on my part to actually leave my seat. By the end of the eleven-hour flight I had it down to a science. I would plant my left hand firmly on the armrest; swing my right leg over her ample thighs, while lifting myself onto the very tips of my left toes. By this time my right hand had found the armrest tucked into her girth on the other side of her. Then I would slowly shift my weight until I was balancing precariously on both hands, hovering mere millimetres from the comforting confines of her lap. So there I was, ladies and gents, pretty much straddling a stranger. One of those fine moments in life where you see yourself with such crystal clear clarity that you can no longer take yourself seriously because you’ve now seen yourself at your most ridiculous. “That’s two for God,” I thought as I shifted my weight to my right foot and awkwardly extracted my left leg, landing solidly centre aisle.