Why I Choose the Exit Row

I would love to say that the reason I choose an airplane Exit Seat (over better seats or even First Class) is because I am a crazy, expert assassin ninja who is always in need of a quick escape. And that I’m so badass that at any moment, I might need to jump backwards out of the plane and Inspector Gadget my purse into a parachute. 

Every flight I that score the Exit Seat, I take my role seriously. I size up my exit row compatriots, make direct eye contact with them, then offer a teeny “we got this” nod of camaraderie. I give the steward/ess an enthusiastic YES! when asked if I am willing and able to help in the event of a crisis. Then, I read the operations manual, specially reserved for Exit Row Guests Only, and formulate a plan. The Exit Row couple across the aisle on my left seem able to coordinate their efforts of opening their door, handling the people on their side of the plane, and manning the bouncy castle slide. Me and my husband, and the random, averaged-sized dude next to us, will organize who on our side of the plane will slip down the slide and when, based on size and capability. I apologize in advance to the old ladies and babies who might get trampled. I just want everyone to deplane in a safe and secure manner on their way to watery, bouncy castle heaven.  

This ultimately leads me to a round of silly giggles, after the incredulous look my husband gives me when I dead seriously tell him the plan. He responds by pursing his lips and squinting his eyes at me, then putting on his sunglasses and falling directly asleep, no less than one minute later. 

I really don’t enjoy being trapped in a smallish space with a bunch of strangers for hours. Does anyone? It’s like serving Jury Duty time, while floating precariously thousands of miles above solid ground. 

When I was little, I got trapped all the time. I can count the number of times on one hand that I’ve gotten stuck in a bathroom, due to my kid self not being able to figure out the handle, or having enough weight to push a stuck door. And this was before cell phones, so much to my chagrin, I had to yell and bang as loud as I could and admit a rather embarrassing defeat: The bathroom door had bested me. 

I also used to get ensnared at church all the time, too. Wildly running through a lobby filled with two dozen men in suits meant that inevitably, my tangly, static prone, little kid hair would get wound around someone’s lapel buttons. It hurt. And it was dually awkward. No man wants a kid snared to his suit jacket. 

Now, despite being older and stronger (and wearing my hair in a ponytail), I still find myself getting trapped, but thankfully, in more inconspicuous ways. I find it happens most often during wedding season, and here’s why:

I see a nice, blue dress I like. I try to find the right size, based on the tag and my eyeball’s summation. Once in the dressing room, I optimistically slip the dress over my head. I tug it down, but the zipper barely goes up. I curse the makers and whatever kind of tricky, pseudo elastic fabric they made the dress with. I pinch and squeeze, hop and jump. I silently pray that no one can see my fancy footwork or hole-y, mismatched socks from under the dressing room door. Then, I take a deep breath, idiotically hoping that when I look up into the 3-way fun house mirror, the dress will look like it was made for me. 

Not surprisingly, I peek out of an arm hole into the mirror, and see what appears to be a halloween costume of a blue, Play-Doh snowman. I adjust the dress some more, look at my reflection again, and I see a human-sized, blue finger with a string tied around it. Exasperated, I take a final look and decide I should submit an entry to the People of Walmart site.

I can’t help but stifle a chuckle at the sheer silliness of the situation. I try to unzip and start to panic, as I can’t lift the stupid mound of acrylic, polyester, ferret-hair blend over my hips. I start making a mental list of people whom I could call to come to my rescue with a pair of scissors, a nonjudgemental smile, and the ability to reign in their amusement: The Pope, Bernie Sanders, a feminist, Sam (the American eagle in the Muppet Show), Professor Snape (Harry Potter), Data or Spock (from Star Trek), Batman, or Attila the Hun. 

Thankfully, there are smaller instances of being trapped that happen often, and don't require a "phone-a-friend" card:

• Getting your belt loop, purse handle, or sleeve stuck on a door knob. 
• Putting your hoodie on backwards. 
• Sitting in the front row of an important presentation meeting and having to leave.  
• Sitting in the middle of the row at the movies and having to use the bathroom. 
• An obligatory (company or family) holiday party. 
• Going through the grocery line and bagging your food only to realize you forgot your wallet.
• Being put on the spot. 
• Being stuck at the airport, on an elevator, subway, train, in traffic, etc. 

To me, all these instances of being trapped are manageable, as long as I know that there is a way out, or that there is at least an end game.

And that, my friends, is why I choose the Exit Row.