On my flight home, seven months pregnant and exhausted, I thought the worst was turbulence. I was wrong. When an entitled seatmate crossed the line, I finally stood up for myself, and learned the real power of claiming my space, no matter who was watching.
I was seven months pregnant, flying home alone after a week of client meetings and hotel food, and doing everything I could to not burst into tears over a stranger’s bare feet.
It was not how I pictured my Thursday.
The plan was simple:
I had already texted my husband, Hank:
“I’ll be home soon.
The baby and I want pasta with extra cheese.”
His reply made me smile:
“Already boiling the water, Sum. Can’t wait to see you.”
But the universe had other plans.
I waddled through security, yes, waddled, and there is no shame in calling it what it is when your ankles look like you have lost a fight with a bee swarm, barely making it to my gate before final boarding.
“You’re almost home, Summer,” I muttered to myself. “Almost back to your own bed.”
I shuffled down the jet bridge, breathing in that recycled airplane air.
I was already dreaming of my home. Instead, I found Nancy. Her handbag had her name engraved in fancy gold script.
She landed in our row like she had been personally inconvenienced by air travel itself.
Her sunglasses were perched on her head, phone glued to her ear, she did not so much as glance at me.
“No, Rachel,” she said. “If they downgrade my room again, I will escalate. I’m not dealing with that level of incompetence today.”
She threw her tote into the middle seat, my row, of course, then snapped her fingers at the overhead bin.
“Excuse me, can someone help me with this?” she called, loud enough for the entire section to hear.
A college guy in the row behind stood up to help, but she barely acknowledged him.
I scooted over to the window and tried a “Hi,” but Nancy replied with a sigh and the faintest flicker of a side-eye.
She plopped down beside me, cranking the vent open, then off.
“It’s freezing,” she muttered, rubbing her arms.
“Do you want a blanket?” I asked, digging in my tote for a Chapstick. “I’m not using mine.”
She ignored me, already jabbing the call button.
Stacey, the flight attendant, appeared within seconds, all calm and efficient. “Yes, ma’am?”
Nancy didn’t hesitate. “Can you turn the air down and bring me a sparkling water, no ice?
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