Elbows: rub them or throw them?
Either way, keep them off the table and off my armrest.
She deserves credit for her conviction. The second the arm rest came down, she claimed it as her own with the same confidence (and, to an extent, cruelty) of an Old World explorer.
She knew what she wanted and she took it. I’d like to acknowledge that I can respect and ridicule that at the same time.
The average airplane armrest measures 2.5” in width and 16” in length. It’s roughly the same size as the air pump we own and occasionally use to inflate soccer balls—a tool that I see every time I open the sports closet and yet can never find when, twice a year, I actually need it.
To own such an item is a perfectly natural desire and also inexplicable.
It’s so small. It provides so little comfort. It is lifeless and dull and serves its purpose in only the barest way possible. So when the woman sitting next to me used her elbow to force mine off our “shared” armrest, I could only wonder.
Had I encroached on her space? Could I have offended her in some way? Did she need the extra support for some unseen medical reason? Could sitting with both elbows fully extended in either direction possibly be comfortable? And why were her arms so soft and in direct opposition to my preconceived idea of sharp elbows?
You should know this is not a retrospective. I’m not writing from memory. I am on the plane. She is next to me.
My elbow is tucked in to my side. I’m leaning as far away from her as possible without jutting into the aisle. My handwriting is illegible and will be impossible to decipher when I try to type this later. Thankfully, that means she can’t read it either.
The uniquely human desire to possess an armrest transcends type. This woman’s age, race, style, demeanor, dress, gender, everything, are irrelevant to the story. Put any person in her chair and this behavior is equally bewildering.
Here are some of her details anyway.
She does not own headphones.
Her jacket rests on her lap like a blanket.
She has alternated between sleeping, reading news articles on her phone, and peering through the seats to watch the movie of the man in front of us (Dirty Dancing).
Whenever she closes her eyes—and I swear to you, I am not making this up—her hands play air piano on her tray table. Not exact notes or chords, per se. But there is a clear rhythm to what she’s doing.
She seems perfectly normal. Yet, at the same moment I convince myself of this, she readjusts her seating and shoves my arm off once more. She has elbowed me in the ribs twice now.
As the meal cart rolls by, she expresses loud displeasure: “Wait, we have to buy these?” Suddenly, we’re on the same team.
I’ve tried to stop writing multiple times for two reasons. One, my shoulder hurts. Two, I don’t know where I’m going with any of this (pretty normal actually).
But things keep happening.
She falls asleep moments before the free snacks arrive and almost misses them (stressful!). My notebook is hanging off my tray table into the aisle creating a legitimate hazard for people passing by. The flight attendant with the snack cart asks me to scoot back into my seat. How I am the one getting scolded in this situation is beyond me.
Once the snacks pass, I can report that the woman ordered a Bloody Mary mix and Biscoff cookies. She sent the cup of ice back and requested a new one.
I was so rattled by all of this that I asked for a Dr. Pepper—breaking an infinite long streak of ordering ginger ale on planes. The Dr. Pepper, however, slaps.
Both her and I are now watching Dirty Dancing. It is objectively sexy and too sensual for public viewing imo. During a steamy scene, we both look away and she begins reading an article about men’s hair loss. Of note: she is traveling with her husband and his hair is quite thin.
Two names that seem phonetically designed to leap off the page, both in headlines and paragraphs: Trump and Kardashian. The font on her phone is gigantic, so that also helps.
In the time it takes me to finish my snack and drink and throw all the trash away, her Bloody Mary and Biscoffs remain untouched. She eventually takes a few sips of her drink (from the can) before throwing the rest away, including the unopened cookies.
I should talk to her, but I don’t. I just watch and scratch out notes. I laugh to myself and wonder if anyone observes my quirks with the same level of amused scrutiny, or if this is just a weird thing I do to others.
She will never read this. She will never know. If asked to pick me out of a lineup, she’d fail.
But we’ve rubbed elbows now, and I’ll never forget it.
Thanks for reading this far.
- jd
And also…
Sleeping in a hotel with your bag packed and prepared to leave the next morning provides a wonderful feeling of accomplishment.
Every Mission Impossible move holds up except for the second one.
Whoever first decided to put an extra slice of bread in the middle of a club sandwich is an idiot. Truly, what is the point of that except to make the sandwich more difficult to eat?
Putting mountains next to lakes was one of God’s best ideas.
One of life’s greatest joys is working alongside people who are excellent at what they do.
