Dear Seat Mate in 1A Who Weaponized the Aisle

Dear Seat Mate in 1A Who Weaponized the Aisle,

First of all, congratulations on your hydration. Truly impressive. Every 45 seconds you rose from your throne in 1A and made the slow, deliberate journey to the lavatory like it was a spiritual pilgrimage.

Unfortunately, each pilgrimage came with a parting gift.

Ma’am.

This was not walking.

This was crop dusting with intent.

Every time you stood up, you released what can only be described as a silent atmospheric event. No warning. No sound. Just vibes. Bad ones. Lingering ones. The kind that make you question airline oxygen levels and your own will to live.

I tried to be polite. I really did. I stared straight ahead. I adjusted my air vent like it was a life support system. I breathed shallow breaths like a hostage. But the cycle continued. Stand up. Stroll forward. Chemical warfare. Repeat.

At one point, I started timing it. Forty five seconds. Like clockwork. I don’t know what was happening in your body, but it felt personal.

By hour two, I wasn’t sure if I was in first class or trapped inside a haunted digestive system. Flight attendants walked by unfazed. Veterans. Survivors. I caught one of them flinch. She knew.

And the audacity. The confidence. You would return from the lavatory, sit down, buckle up, and smile like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just violated the Geneva Convention at 30,000 feet.

Sincerely,

Your Innocent Seat Mate

(Currently airing out my soul and filing this memory under “reasons to fly private”)