Dear Passenger in 13C,

First, allow me to thank you for the unexpected opportunity to be reassigned from my carefully chosen aisle exit row to the luxurious prison cell known as 11B—the middle seat. Truly, a masterclass in customer disservice.

Once wedged into my newly assigned fate, you proceeded to introduce me to your unsupervised pre-teen, whom you deposited in the window seat, two rows in front of you, like a carry-on item you were tired of lugging. Before making your grand Houdini exit, you rattled off his entire operating manual—bathroom schedule, snack preferences, and apparently a standing appointment with my patience—as though I’d been hired as the in-flight au pair.

And then, the pièce de résistance: the child’s digestive pyrotechnics. Whatever delicacy you fed him before boarding clearly came straight from the “Weaponized Beans” section of the menu. In 100,000+ miles of air travel last year, I have never endured flatulence at both this frequency and velocity. By the second hour, I was calculating whether to alert air traffic control for an emergency landing at the nearest gastroenterology clinic.

So congratulations. You’ve given me a new entry in my personal aviation hall of shame. I’ll be sprinting to the lounge shower not for comfort, but for survival.

Sincerely,

Reconsidering a career in hazmat response