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Do You Have a Problem, Sir?

The story begins with the ride to the airport after finishng the 2014 Chicago Marathon.

I booked a flight home the day after the marathon. Worst. Planning. Ever. 
Science research shows that human beings are getting taller and fatter with every generation.

Especially me - I mean the fatter part.

It seems that every airline has used that information and interpreted that to mean they should decrease the space between the seat rows and compact the chairs. Instead of making clusters of two and three seats per row, every row crams three seats on each side of the aisle. What that means is, I was sitting in my seat with my chin propped up with my knees. There was no room stretch out, or even move.

You can imagine what my muscles thought about that after running a marathon.

Whatever you’re imagining, it was worse. Every runner has experienced muscle cramps, and the way to get rid of a cramp is to stand on it to apply pressure. As a runner, I have experienced some horrific Charlie Horses!

Eff Charlie. Eff the horse. Just saying.

It’s only a two hour flight; the flight attendants are trying to do their job and offer passengers the Dixie cup of Coke that is included in the ticket price. During food service (this sounds elegant for a 5-cent pack of stale pretzels)

I was asked to return to my seat.

I couldn’t walk it out, and I couldn’t stretch, and when it hit, it caused extreme pain - the kind that makes you let out a yelp like a dog who got its tail caught in the car door. Apparently, that noise sounds a lot like a terrorist attack. It was just my luck that it happened to be an Air Marshal one seat ahead and across the aisle.

As he turned around I could see the pistol hanging from inside his jacket, which incidentally was not an official Chicago Marathon Finisher’s jacket.

One eye making direct contact with mine as I was trying to stand up with a seatbelt on, and asked in a baritone voice, “You got a problem, sir?” As he talked, his left eyebrow lifted upward and he looked at me in such a way that I knew better than to tell him my problem. Trying my best not to look like a nervous infidel with a body bomb, I simply shook my head. “No, I’m good.”

Eventually, the plane touched down in Boston.

14 votes + -

1 comment:

solieco1 wrote 5 days ago:
Hahaha this just made me almost spit out my coffee! I’ve been there after a 70.3 Half Ironman but thankfully with no Air Marshall 🤣🤣🤣

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