The Nightmare Series: Aeroplane rides

Ladies and gentlemen: welcome to what you will come to know, hopefully fondly, as the Nightmare Series. I hope that you will come to wait eagerly for each addition to the series with bated breath and overwhelming anticipation. From time to time I will throw in these pieces, which will be insightful explorations of the most uncomfortable situations that we, as the largely lard-dispossessed, often find ourselves.

The series will feature some of the most embarrassing situations in which plus-sized individuals find themselves. I will largely tap into personal experience or stories that I’ve heard first-hand from other pork-chops-loving members of the fellowship, and will attempt to take you on an emotional, though sometimes humorous, but mostly tear-jerking journey through life as a member of the super-size brigade.

First up, I will tackle the seemingly simple issue of commuting. The Oxford English Dictionary defines “commute” as “travel regularly between one’s home and place of work”. I define that word as “hell on Earth”. It is fitting for me to use the word “commute” as opposed to “travel”, as the only reason I get on an aeroplanes is to go somewhere for work purposes. Otherwise I stay my fat behind at home and concern myself with such matters as making sure the stockpile of Castle Draught at my local bar never ages anywhere near its best-before date. I’m sure you will agree that this is a noble act fitting of a responsible member of society such as the Sumo.

My work calls for me to go and see customers regularly, maintain a healthy relationship with them and have project meetings. I swear I don’t mind the fact that every time I have to travel to another city I have to be up at about 4am to catch a 6am flight out. I also don’t mind that this means my whole day is turned on its head. There will be no bacon, scrambled eggs, two kinds of sausages and a side of chips for breakfast. I happily forego my 10am tea and chicken-mayo-and-bacon sandwiches and even my pre-lunch ham-cheese-and-tomato (what I call my salad roll) at around noon. These are all necessary sacrifices that I willingly make for my beloved company.

What I do mind very much, though, is the actual plane ride. As I mentioned before, I’ve been at my current company for five years and promotions haven’t come my way. There’s a tight travel budget that seems to get progressively thinner every year, so you can imagine that economy class is the only class in which I can travel. Economy class brings a whole set of logistical challenges for me. As I’ve mentioned before; I’m 147kg and more than six foot tall. I was not made for economy class, period! There are no two ways about it.

When I arrive at the check-in counters, I always try to pick a desperate-looking young lady. I go to her and attempt to get her to upgrade me to business class. Here I use my irresistible mix of charm, humour, cuteness and a promise of marriage, but it has never worked yet; I always end up in economy class where I belong. Apparently the ladies at the check-in counters are not that desperate after all. The one thing I always do fight for, though, is my window seat, which is clearly specified as my preference in my rewards profile; window seat, on the right wing. Of course I never get this either; I always end up at the back of the plane on seat E smack-bang in the middle of two really unfortunate individuals.

Being the Sumo, I always like to make the most of even the worst situations; it is in my nature and has been a successful survival tactic for me so far. I always try to turn my misfortune into humour; it makes me feel better. So as I walk down the aisle of the plane — sideways, of course — I search for the people who are already seated who look the most uncomfortable with the idea of me sitting next to them.

You can tell when a person is having a private conversation with his god as I walk down towards them; they always have the look of utter horror on their faces coupled with a few beads of sweat trickling down their face. I always imagine the conversation to be along these lines:

Fatty-hater: My god/s, please don’t let this fat person sit next to me, you know I’m claustrophobic and he is probably sweaty too … Please let him sit next to the atheist over on 29F! Please! I’ve been a good person all year, I’ve had a bad day! I promise I’ll stop sleeping with my secretary, I swear I will! Why do you want to punish me?

As I see this person, and being the humour-loving person that I am, I slow down as I get close to them and take a look at my ticket stub. Then I look up at panel above them with the seat numbers and then I take another glance at my stub as if to say: “Yup, this is me …” and then, as I reach their row, I smile and keep walking past them and listen for a huge sigh behind me. They always take a glance back just to make sure that I’m really gone and they breathe another sigh of relief. I proceed to pick another victim and repeat the process.

At some stage I find my seat, between two of the unluckiest people that day. I promptly put my luggage away and loosen the seat belt to its maximum. I then sling each part of the seatbelt over the armrest closest to it. I’m already sweating by this stage. I then proceed to squeeze myself between the armrests, and this of course causes the seatbelts to slide under my bum as I slide down. What follows is a series of shuffles and slides aimed at getting the tip of the short end of the seatbelt to reveal itself from under my great behind so that I can hook it up with my finger and pull it out into daylight again. All this is taking place while the other two passengers are still standing. Now there’s a queue forming behind the one on the aisle and rivers of sweat are dripping from my nose.

With the tip of the short end of the seatbelt firmly in my sweaty grip and its feminine partner in my other hand, I sit back, knees together, and take a five-minute breather before trying to fasten the seatbelt. This presents one of the toughest challenges yet. You see, the seatbelts on all makes and sizes of aeroplanes are designed to be exactly 3cm too short for me. I believe it is all a part of a sick joke played on me by the airlines, designed to see how much pulling and sucking in of the gut it would take before I let out the blood-curdling scream: “Seatbelt extender, please!” in my most girly voice.

It’s downhill from there on, and by this stage I have sweated about three litres down the back of my seat. The whole plane ride is a nightmare. The tray table is too low, which results in it resting at a 30-degree angle on my thighs. This means I have to keep my hands on all the contents of the tray table to keep them from sliding off. And what’s up with the judgemental looks when I order three whiskies all at once? I need the whisky to calm me down after the whole seating experience. And who is the genius designer who said the buttons for reclining the seatback should be on the inside of the armrest? Who was that? I’d like to meet him so we can discuss his design flaws after he regains consciousness! You have no idea how awkward it is to spend the whole flight in a permanently reclined position while balancing the tray table on your thighs with your hands stretched out holding the whisky and sandwich combo.

I’m going to stop here and go have another beer. This piece is making me all emotional, and I might have to join a support group if I don’t stop. Next time, spare a thought for the fat person waddling down the aisle of the plane; be nice to him or her. What to you is an enjoyable flight is to them a nightmare experience. And to the ladies at check-in counters all over the country, especially Durban and Jo’burg: give a fat boy a beak and holla at that upgrade, a’ight?!

I rest

The Sumo