As a six-foot-tall teenager, airplane seats already feel like torture devices. But when the businessman in front of me slammed his seat into recline position without warning, I knew this flight would be special. My knees immediately became one with the seatback in front of me, wedged at an angle that would make a contortionist wince.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said politely, “could you please adjust your seat? I don’t have any legroom.” He barely glanced back. “Not my problem, kid. I paid for this seat.” Even the flight attendant’s attempt to mediate failed against his stubbornness. That’s when I noticed my mom’s jumbo bag of Chex Mix peeking from her carry-on.
What followed was the most passive-aggressive snack session in aviation history. Each crunch sent a rain of crumbs cascading onto his perfectly gelled hair. When he finally turned around furious, I smiled sweetly: “Sorry, turbulence!” By the time I “accidentally” spilled my ginger ale, he’d surrendered his reclined position – and I’d learned that sometimes petty is perfectly justified.
