Airline Legroom
August 15, 2003
by Mike Spinney

Writing this little screed, I am but a few days from boarding a Delta passenger jet for a brief trip to Georgia to visit my sister and her family.

I dread the prospect.

This has nothing to do with my sister. We get along about as well as a brother and sister can – especially when the brother still bears numerous psychological scars from a childhood dotted with instances of sibling abuse. That, however, is another story for another time.

No, I’m actually looking forward to the ground time, of teasing my 15-month old nephew to the point of tears, and of being humiliated yet again on the golf course by my brother-in-law.

It’s the flight that will suck.

Recently, I flew to Alaska to fish the wild rivers of Iliamna. The fishing was superb, but once again, that’s another story for another time. The reason I mention the trip is because the travel involved rekindled a longstanding beef I have with the airline industry.

I’ll lay it out for you in one word: legroom.

At 6’5”, I’m above average in height, but not freakishly so. I’ve also had both knees reconstructed thanks to a couple ligaments that weren’t up to the job of stabilizing their assigned joints under the strain of a load that has grown increasingly hefty since its skeletal frame stopped expanding.

The trip from Boston to Anchorage takes about 12 hours, most of which are spent crammed into a seat engineered to provide Calista Flockhart with room to spare, but for the rest of the world, hope you like dueling for space on the armrest with the occupant of 16B.

Then, there is my favorite in-flight inevitability. About three seconds after the captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign, 15A decides it’s time to recline, dropping the seatback and tray table firmly into position on my lap.

And, lest you think otherwise, the act of reclining has never been a gentle one in my experience. Rather, the individual in front of me seems always to find it necessary to bring his or her full weight to bear while pushing the release button.

About this time, I like to play a game called “find the kidney.” The rules are simple – fidget and twist while digging what’s left of your knees into the back of the chair that is now resting on your legs. If you are lucky, you may be able to observe the thinning scalp of the occupant in front of you as it twitches and turns red, quietly stewing from the jostling you’re giving him. This reddening of the scalp also makes it easier to count the individual flakes of dandruff spotting your neighbor’s head, which is an excellent way to pass the time on a long flight.

There really is no good way to avoid having your personal space violated on a commercial airliner. Whether it’s the seat in the lap, dueling elbows, window seat weak bladder syndrome, or a snack cart to the ankles, you have no choice but suck it up and make the best of it.

Similarly, there’s no way to avoid violating the personal space of others. The best you can hope for is minimizing the impact of each encounter.

I unwittingly handicapped myself in this regard the morning of my departure.

Getting dressed at approximately 3:00 a.m., I did my wife the favor of keeping the lights off so as not to disturb her slumber. To my dismay, while exiting my car in Central Parking at Logan International, I discovered that the pair of jeans I grabbed in the dark had a good 4-inch rip in the crotch – perfectly positioned to allow my nutsack to bulge out (tastefully covered by my drawers, mind you, but just the same…) at various times.

I did my best to keep the Sunday Globe in my lap during the flight’s first leg. The first problem came while toting my bags through the airport during a few hours of layover in Chicago. I decided I wasn’t going to make a special effort to keep things concealed – let me be honest, there’s not much to see – and I noticed a couple people wearing bemused smirks while casting a momentary glance in the direction of my crotch.

So be it. Glad I could brighten your Sunday morning.

The second problem occurred in transit from Chicago to Anchorage, when it came time for the old man in the window seat (married, incidentally, to the old lady beside me with the nervous twitch) to look after his apparent kidney disorder. As he excused himself, I had no choice but to stand up and make room for nature’s call.

The request gave me an opportunity to stretch my legs. It also provided a convenient excuse to bump and grind on the seat in front of me. At this point, however, I’ve got a decision to make: who’s gonna get the up-close-and-personal view of my nad bulge?

The choice was easy. 15C, say hello to the boys.

(Mike Spinney is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)