Keep your hands to yourself
Howdy! Most of you who know me also know about my fervent fight for armrest space...especially at high altitude. Whenever I’m on a flight, I wait to see who sits next to me and chart out a game plan accordingly. I have an arsenal of moves and strategies to tackle most armrest situations. Well, strategy may be the most abused word in a b-school, but folks, I’ll tell you there’s no abuse like armrest abuse! I’d like to think that I do possess bragging rights for being the grandmaster of armrests. In the lingo of our learned master Zynga, I would be the El Armrestino Principal at level 9999, or maybe an honorary level 71 of 'Armville'.
So, confident that I could take on any adversary, I waited with my chin in the air on a recent flight. Lo and behold, in spite of the flight not being full, I was blessed with a co-armrester. Innocuous at first sight, the man stowed his cabin luggage and settled down. Oh well, ‘settled down’ would be a stretch, for he had a friend in the seat in front...and let’s just say he was very fond of that person.
Fidget, fidget, fidget. Seatbelts done. Fidget again. I gave him a look that said “Good job, I think your seat belt situation is taken care of. Can we move to the armrest please?” Totally oblivious, he starts digging into the pouch in front of him. Fidget, fidget, fidget. My look changes to “If you are looking for your life jacket, it’s not in there buddy.” Ding! He hits the button for assistance. A member of the cabin crew appears and in all fake politeness asks what his problem is. “Water,” he asks. My look is now “Was the walk from the gate to your seat so gruelling that you are dehydrated?” He gets and drinks a cup of water. I hope that at least now the armrest wars would begin. But hell, no! His focus turns to his partner in the front seat. He plays with his curly hair for a while and whacks him gently. Let’s just say my look at that point would’ve been priceless. Ding! Crew’s getting a little impatient. The flights not taken off yet and the man’s dinging them for the second time. “Yes sir, what can I get you?” asks the attendant, his training on patience being put to the test. “Pillow” comes the reply. A pillow? You serious? The flying time isn’t more than 50 minutes and you want to rest that head?...which is filled with a substance that surely is lighter than grey matter. The pillow demand is met. The focus is back on partner in front. This time he picks up the safety instruction card and dislodges the ‘grease guard’ – a small piece of absorbent material that seats have as a protection against zealous coconut oil appliers. At that point I’m thinking “It is simple Velcro man, you just lift it and pull...although I don’t see any logic backing that move.” Anyway, he chops the grease guard from his partner’s seat and flings it on his head. Expressions of love, they say are weird. This is the big momma of weirdness. His partner doesn’t get mad. In fact, he expects it I think. Fidget, fidget, fidget. Seriously man, is this some kind of restless hand syndrome (RHS)? Looks out the window and then...ding! For the love of God, I was thinking if I were a RHS man, what would I possibly need now. I wait in anticipation. We had just taken off and the seat belt signs were off. The attendant is low on faking and politeness at this point. “Yes, any problem?” “Coffee,” came the reply. I thought to myself, go ahead and give this monkey some red bull. That’ll be quite an experiment at high altitude. I was fighting exhaustion, so I gave up on keeping track of the RHS man’s movements. I look at the armrest – in all her glory, completely unoccupied. This was a walkover, and the only victory I was not proud of. I planted my arm firmly and close my eyes. The fidgeting and the dings kept coming, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t react until I felt the grease guard on my head. Luckily we reached our destination and Captain Dean tries his best to say Shamshabad. Needless to say, our RHS man was in the aisle even before we hit terra firma. All that haste did not make sense as I saw him outside McDonalds, sipping on a cold drink, presumably Coke. With a silent prayer for his partner, I hailed a cab home.
So, confident that I could take on any adversary, I waited with my chin in the air on a recent flight. Lo and behold, in spite of the flight not being full, I was blessed with a co-armrester. Innocuous at first sight, the man stowed his cabin luggage and settled down. Oh well, ‘settled down’ would be a stretch, for he had a friend in the seat in front...and let’s just say he was very fond of that person.
Fidget, fidget, fidget. Seatbelts done. Fidget again. I gave him a look that said “Good job, I think your seat belt situation is taken care of. Can we move to the armrest please?” Totally oblivious, he starts digging into the pouch in front of him. Fidget, fidget, fidget. My look changes to “If you are looking for your life jacket, it’s not in there buddy.” Ding! He hits the button for assistance. A member of the cabin crew appears and in all fake politeness asks what his problem is. “Water,” he asks. My look is now “Was the walk from the gate to your seat so gruelling that you are dehydrated?” He gets and drinks a cup of water. I hope that at least now the armrest wars would begin. But hell, no! His focus turns to his partner in the front seat. He plays with his curly hair for a while and whacks him gently. Let’s just say my look at that point would’ve been priceless. Ding! Crew’s getting a little impatient. The flights not taken off yet and the man’s dinging them for the second time. “Yes sir, what can I get you?” asks the attendant, his training on patience being put to the test. “Pillow” comes the reply. A pillow? You serious? The flying time isn’t more than 50 minutes and you want to rest that head?...which is filled with a substance that surely is lighter than grey matter. The pillow demand is met. The focus is back on partner in front. This time he picks up the safety instruction card and dislodges the ‘grease guard’ – a small piece of absorbent material that seats have as a protection against zealous coconut oil appliers. At that point I’m thinking “It is simple Velcro man, you just lift it and pull...although I don’t see any logic backing that move.” Anyway, he chops the grease guard from his partner’s seat and flings it on his head. Expressions of love, they say are weird. This is the big momma of weirdness. His partner doesn’t get mad. In fact, he expects it I think. Fidget, fidget, fidget. Seriously man, is this some kind of restless hand syndrome (RHS)? Looks out the window and then...ding! For the love of God, I was thinking if I were a RHS man, what would I possibly need now. I wait in anticipation. We had just taken off and the seat belt signs were off. The attendant is low on faking and politeness at this point. “Yes, any problem?” “Coffee,” came the reply. I thought to myself, go ahead and give this monkey some red bull. That’ll be quite an experiment at high altitude. I was fighting exhaustion, so I gave up on keeping track of the RHS man’s movements. I look at the armrest – in all her glory, completely unoccupied. This was a walkover, and the only victory I was not proud of. I planted my arm firmly and close my eyes. The fidgeting and the dings kept coming, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t react until I felt the grease guard on my head. Luckily we reached our destination and Captain Dean tries his best to say Shamshabad. Needless to say, our RHS man was in the aisle even before we hit terra firma. All that haste did not make sense as I saw him outside McDonalds, sipping on a cold drink, presumably Coke. With a silent prayer for his partner, I hailed a cab home.
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