I’ve lived in this body long enough to know how the world views me. To some, I’m just an “inconvenience” in a tight aisle. Because of that, I’ve developed a strict travel rule: I always buy two seats. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it for my peace of mind and the comfort of whoever is next to me.
On this particular work trip to Chicago, I had booked the window and the middle seat. I was settled in, armrest up, feeling actually relaxed for once. But then, the “Smug Couple” arrived.
They were late, breathless, and radiating a sense of entitlement that you could smell from three rows away. The woman took the aisle seat, and without a word of greeting, the man plopped himself down into my second seat—the middle one.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to keep my voice polite but firm. “I actually paid for both of these seats.”
He didn’t even look at me. He just scoffed, adjusting his headphones. “Seriously?! It’s EMPTY. RELAX,” he barked.
I felt that familiar heat rise in my chest. “It’s not empty. I am using it. I have the boarding pass to prove it.”
He sat down anyway, leaning heavily toward me and immediately bumping into my shoulder. When I asked him to move again, he snapped, “I’M NOT MOVING. DEAL WITH IT.“
At that point, I had two choices: suffer in silence for four hours or stand my ground. I chose the latter. I pressed the flight attendant call button.
The man’s wife started chiming in now. “It’s just a seat! Why are you being so selfish? He just wants to sit next to me.”
“Then you should have booked seats together,” I replied. “I paid for the space I am sitting in. If he stays here, he is effectively stealing a service I paid for.”
When the flight attendant, a no-nonsense woman named Sarah, arrived, the man tried to play the victim. “This guy is harrassing us over an empty seat,” he lied, flashing a fake, charming smile.
Sarah looked at my two boarding passes, then back at the man. Her expression didn’t flicker. “Sir, this passenger has purchased both 12A and 12B. You are assigned to 24E. That is twelve rows back.”
“But my wife is here!” he protested.
“Then your wife can join you in the back if there is an open seat next to you,” Sarah said, her voice dropping into that ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone flight attendants master. “Otherwise, you need to move to your assigned seat immediately, or I will have to report a passenger disturbance to the captain.”
The “smug” look evaporated instantly. He huffed, grabbed his bag, and had to do the “walk of shame” all the way to the back of the plane while the surrounding passengers—who had heard the whole thing—watched in silence.
For the rest of the flight, the wife sat in the aisle seat, staring daggers at me. I didn’t care. I lowered the armrest between us (just to reclaim the boundary), leaned back into my two seats, and enjoyed the most spacious, quiet flight of my life.
Being “considerate” by buying two seats doesn’t mean I’m a doormat. It means I value my space—and I’m willing to fight for what I paid for.
My wife, Sarah, and I were having the morning from hell. The Uber was late, TSA was a nightmare, and by the time we reached the gate, they were already on the final boarding group. We were stressed, sweating, and just wanted to sit down and breathe.
When we got to our row, I saw a golden opportunity. There was a guy in the window seat, and the middle seat next to him was completely wide open. It was a gift from the travel gods. I figured, “Great, I can sit with my wife instead of being stuck ten rows back in some cramped middle seat.”
I sat down, finally feeling my heart rate drop. But before I could even get my seatbelt clicked, the guy next to me starts hovering.
“Sorry,” he says, all self-important. “I paid for both.”
I couldn’t believe it. I laughed—mostly out of pure disbelief. “Seriously?! It’s EMPTY. RELAX,” I told him. I mean, look at the plane. It’s a metal tube packed with people, and this guy wants a whole “buffer zone” to himself? Talk about the height of greed.
I stayed put. I wasn’t trying to be a jerk; I was trying to be with my wife. But he wouldn’t let it go. He kept nudging me, acting like I was invading his private island. Then he starts “asking” me to move again. I’d had enough. “I’M NOT MOVING. DEAL WITH IT,” I snapped. Sometimes you have to stand up to people who think they own the public airwaves.
Then, he does the most “elementary school” move possible: he hits the call button.
The flight attendant comes over, and you can tell she’s already had a long day. I tried to be reasonable. I gave her my best “we’re all adults here” smile and explained that I just wanted to sit with my spouse. But instead of seeing the logic, she looks at his two tickets like they’re the Declaration of Independence.
“Sir, you need to move to 24E,” she says, cold as ice.
I looked at Sarah, then back at this guy who was literally smirking now. I had to get up and drag my bags all the way to the back of the plane—into a middle seat between two teenagers eating loud snacks—all because one guy couldn’t handle sharing “his” extra air.
Some people just don’t know how to be part of a society.
