I think of what I’ve sacrificed to be here. What’s that, you ask? My spot on the sofa… next to the side table. A sigh escapes my lips. When I sit down next, it will be in the middle, on the broken spring, rendering it impossible to use the side table. Nevertheless, my tight skirt insisted that I change my clothes and “just do it”.
So, here I am in my sausage casing (workout apparel) gracefully plowing forward on this stationary machine while trying to read a 600 page novel on my tiny phone screen. I have my delicious Walmart bottled water with flavor enhancing minerals. It really is delicious (and I do love the emperors new clothes).
This is all going along just fine, two minutes under my belt already, only 58 + 5 to cool down left. Then, it happens… A hairy, sweat splashing beast ascends from hades and climbs up onto the elliptical next to me. He is snorting, grunting, farting, as well as emitting other smells heretofore unknown to man. That’s it, my opinion is formed.
Before I can send out the wedding announcements, another prospective marital contender enters my horizon. The unoccupied machine on my left is now mounted. Is it possible that my new fantasy man has a twin? It appears that planet earth has been twice graced.
They know each other, and an incomprehensible spit splattering conversation ensues. I am living every straight woman, and gay man’s fantasy. I am at the center of a funky, bad breath, spit filled hairball sandwich.
I offer to switch spots with either. The reply is “mmrrargh” with negative head shaking. I wipe off the fluids that have hit my face and try to focus on something less grotesque. I look at the tiny words of the novel on my phone and think about my spot on the sofa at home which is undoubtedly now occupied by one of three thankless spawn of mine.
“Oh!” I say. “I may have pulled a hammie.” I grab the back of my cramping leg and rub, slowing down to the pace right before reverse. My men don’t break their conversation, or acknowledge me. This is too bad. I’m going to take this as a sign that I’ve done enough for one day. I’ll maybe try again tomorrow. I’m only ending 52 + 5 minutes to cool down early. Not bad. Middle seat with a broken cushion spring and no side table, here I come.
The Daily Post, July 7, 2014, Daily Prompt: The Middle Seat~It turns out that your neighbor on the plane/bus/train (or the person sitting at the next table at the coffee shop) is a very, very chatty tourist. Do you try to switch seats, go for a non-committal brief small talk, or make this person your new best friend?