There’s something about rude behavior in tight spaces—like airplanes—that brings out the worst in people. My husband, Alton, and I learned this the hard way on a recent flight home from visiting his parents. What should have been a peaceful trip turned into a battle of wills with a woman who thought my husband’s seat was her personal footrest.
It started innocently enough. We boarded, settled in, and I was already dreaming of my own bed after a week away. But then I noticed it—the woman behind us had propped her bare feet up on Alton’s seat. Not just resting them there, but occasionally kicking, like she was testing the durability of the upholstery.
Alton, ever the patient one, politely asked her to stop. She smirked, whispered something to her friend, and ignored him. He tried again, firmer this time. She rolled her eyes and kept chatting like she hadn’t heard a thing.
At this point, I was fuming. But I didn’t say anything—yet. Instead, Alton flagged down a flight attendant, who gave the woman a stern warning. For about five minutes, the feet disappeared. Then, as soon as the attendant walked away, they were back.
That’s when I decided enough was enough.
The drink cart came by, and I got a bottle of water—tightly sealed. I didn’t drink it. Instead, I waited. When the woman shifted and kicked Alton’s seat again, I “accidentally” tipped the bottle just enough to spill water onto her bag tucked beneath the seat. A few minutes later, I “fumbled” Alton’s drink near her feet.
The shriek was instant. “Did you just spill that on me?!” she hissed.
I blinked innocently. “Oh no! Turbulence must’ve knocked it over. So sorry!”
For the rest of the flight? Not a single foot on Alton’s seat.
Sometimes, petty is the only language some people understand.
