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Window Seats? Are You Kiddin’ Me?
My weekend routine is to sleep in — I usually get up without an alarm clock sometime betwixt 0700 and 0800, then I start my Saturday morning punch list.
First, I perform my Saturday morning ablutions, then I walk the dog(s). The parenthetical “s” is because my eldest daughter is home for a visit, and brought her full-up Pit Bull rescue home with her. Conrad is probably the happiest, friendliest dog I ever met. First time I ever took him out on a Saturday morning walk (I walk the dogs separately, so that they can concentrate on doing their business, and because I don’t relish the idea of trying to hold them both back if one of the innumerable neighborhood feral cats show up), one of the neighborhood ladies who power-walks through the ville in the morning stopped and said, “Oh my goodness, he’s gorgeous. Is he friendly?” I said, of course he is, and she moved forward to pet him.
Before she could even start to lean forward to apply said pet, Conrad jumped vertically in the air to her eye level. I had an immediate daylight/conscious nightmare of “pit bull gone bad” and Conrad jumping up and eating her face. As this was Conrad and my first walk together, I knew the dog but I didn’t know the dog. At the apex of his vertical leap, Conrad managed to lick her face three times before the surly bonds of gravity pulled him back to the ground. Like I said, friendliest dog evah.
After I walk the dogs, I head to Dunkin’ Donuts to get me and the Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo’s coffee and bagels. Saturday’s a cheat day, so I luxuriate in the consumption of my once-per-week sausage-egg-and-cheese on an everything bagel. I usually consume it parked in the automated car wash between DD and Publix. Then I swing by Publix to pick up whatever sundries we need to get to Sunday, when we do the dedicated shop.
The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo has a high-speed, high-stress job, so Saturday mornings are her rack-time mornings, so I usually don’t expect to see her until 1100-1200 hours. Good. She deserves a sleep-in. Once I’m home, I alternate sets of my weekend workouts with mundane tasks like switching over the laundry (I don’t know how it goes for you, but in our house it seems like laundry is never done, it’s just switched over), emptying and reloading the dishwasher, taking out the trash. I can’t run the vacuum until TLTMM is out of the rack. Don’t want to disrupt her one day to sleep as late as she wants.
All that background is prelude to: all of this is done, starting with the dog walk, listening to the Ricochet podcast. Once I hit the outside pavement with Princess Leia straining on her gentle leader, the opening strains of the Ricochet podcast never fail to put me in a good mood. I’m usually pulling in after Dunkin’ Donuts and Publix just as the podcast ends.
This makes my Saturdays happy days. Sure, I disagree with the fellows sometimes, but I enjoy the conversation and, when I do disagree, it reminds me that I’m not that smart, or knowledgable and definitely live outside the mainstream life, so listen up, Knucklehead.
But a kind of aside, off-the-cuff discussion I heard this morning flummoxed me. Window or aisle seat, which would you choose. Wait. What?
In this day and age, how could one not choose the aisle seat?
Sure, there are comfort considerations to each. But, after 9/11, the failed underwear bomber, and the failed shoe bomber, how could one pick anything but aisle? If the situation on a flight goes south, and you have to shift into the GI-Joe-with-the-kung-fu-grip dynamic mode, why, in the wide, wide world of sports would you be anywhere but the aisle?
I submit that, in this day and age, sitting anywhere but the aisle is a course of action fraught with peril, and that having to climb over one or two other people, while they’re freaking out, in order to get to the threat is not optimal.
Published in General
Back in the day, I was an advocate for the center seat.
It has the most lateral leg room.
Unlike the aisle seat, you do not have to worry about the beverage cart hitting your shoulder.
But, over the last decade or so, one big problem is that the AV electronics are being mounted under the center seat so that you lose underseat storage and footroom.
Also, as the range of single-aisle airliners increases, its more of an annoyance to have the window seat passenger wanting to get past you or opening the shade while you are trying to sleep or watch a movie.
So it’s now window for me.
So, you’re good with, when the adversary whips out his box-cutter or ceramic knife, having to climb over the hysterical, obese lady wearing a mu-mu in order to get to the stabby-stabby slashy-slashy guy who wants, at a minimum, to drive your plane into the ground at ballistic speed?
Long legs. Asile.
As the airlines makes flying more and more horrible
I regard mu-mu woman as my ablative armor.
The seats aren’t built for one of my size. I used to be able to squeeze myself up against the bulkhead and not worry about it giving way, but the aisle seat is preferable.
In terms of my coming to the rescue in a “situation?” I’d like to think that I’d be ready to throw myself into the fray. I’m probably past my prime as a legbreaker, but I take solace in the family motto that I just made up: Non sunt aequa pugnat.
There are no fair fights.
Point.
Because it’s easy because I had uploaded it previously: Me ‘n Conrad
On a morning flight or flights of 2+ hours I have to be on the aisle. I don’t relish inconveniencing others because I need to use the head or just stretch the legs.
I am probably 10-15 pounds overweight. But I certainly do not overflow the armrest or need a seatbelt extension. But I’ve sat next to plenty who have. The airlines have not helped by reducing spacing to the extreme so they could squeeze a few more dollars out of “comfort plus.”
Boss, if you and I were on the same flight, I would also want you to have the aisle seat. As for me, I will happily stick my head in the window.
Aisle.
As for Jihad Johnny, I generally have two pens in my shirt pocket and shoes with laces. I also need a seatbelt extension, so I have that, too. All the tools I need to make a garrote and a flail.
I will probably not succeed, but better to go down fighting. I figure I am going to die anyway, so why not at least try to take one with me.
The traveling public seems satisfied with the security theater of the TSA. They absolutely would not tolerate what it would take to make a plane 100% secure.
I love looking out the window. I am also not a super he-man Boss Mongo. I’m more likely to hurt myself and get in the way of others. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t step up, but having a person or two in the way is probably not going to matter much. On the other hand, I tend to attune to spiritual forces so that these things never happen around me.
So now Kent’s “Bob the Dog” schtick is going to have some competition for Ricochet cuteness likes.
I guess all’s fair in love, war, and dogs…..
Aisle all the way, and the bulkhead if possible, for the leg room. I hate having to sit there with my knees bent so far that they won’t let the tray table come down all the way.
Pro tip: The bulkhead is the row on the emergency exit, and there are no seats right in front of it. BUT they won’t let anyone who isn’t an able-bodied adult sit next to the emergency exit, because the person sitting there must be able to open the door in an emergency (It’s IN THE NAME. EMERGENCY).
When I worked at Air France, I overheard a ticket agent with a woman passenger in front of her at the counter, telling her this information, explaining that we can’t allow a pregnant woman to have that seat.
The woman was not pregnant. Awkwardness ensued. I exited stage left.
I love lap dogs.
Aisle.
At least one arm does not share an arm rest and I don’t have to crawl over someone to go to the restroom. Rarely fly any airline other than Southwest so we try to grab the two seat emergency row when we can.
Yeah. We’re old as dirt but the attendants never refuse to let us sit there. Sometimes they make me prove I can lift my carry-on up into the overhead. It hurts but I don’t wince!
Wrap the strap of the extension around your knuckles with the buckle in your fist and use it like a cestus.
Uh, no. There is no competition.
Correct. Cats are way better.
Stage right, surely. I cannot see you going left on anything.
Which is Conrad?
Haha! It’s funny because I thought this too as I typed it.
The young one.
I’m inclined to agree, EJ.
Boss, I guess the real question is: Which of the podcasters would you think is gonna be the most heroic civilian.
Isn’t Peter a pretty tall guy? Then again, James is a midwestern man. I suppose they can always be relied upon to spring into action when needed. As for Rob…. to the middle seat with him!
They’re all ‘Muricans; each will do what needs to be done when the time comes.
I used to love the window seat when I was a kid. That was in the olden days, when just the flight itself was as exotic and interesting as the destination, and passengers were treated with respect from start to finish. Now, it’s more like a bloody cattle market, and a toss up on any given trip whether the rudest person you meet will be working at the airport, working on the plane, or sitting next to you and elbowing himself or herself into your personal space (such as it is) for the duration.
We’d fly first-class in the early days (I’m talking mid-to-late 1950’s), BOAC (Better On A Camel) between London and Lagos (stops in Barcelona and Tripoli to refuel, sometimes a prop, but increasingly jets), and when I wasn’t looking out the window, I was primping myself in the bathroom, which had free make-up samples and perfume (Elizabeth Arden Blue Grass) for the ladies. Probably the last time in my life I wore full war paint was in about 1962. My mother used to roll her eyes and hold her nose, but it amused me and kept me quiet. The “stewardesses” were charming, and because I was a member of the Junior Jet Club, I got to go in the cockpit (!) and meet the captain, who would fill out my logbook with details of the trip, and sign it for me. The food was excellent too. Gracious living, indeed.
These days, I like to get up occasionally and stretch my legs, so I always go for the aisle seat. Ready access to the bathroom is still important to me, although for a different reason than in my youth. And the guy with the box-cutter who thinks he’s going to impede my way there when I have it in mind to go, ought to think twice before engaging.
Oh, and:
We started a conversation on aisle or window, but in true Ricochet fashion the dialog has gone to the dogs.
Your Welcome.
This makes sense though. Every row should have a kid in the window seat, a dog in the middle, and an American patriot at the aisle!