At 16 and just over six feet tall, airplane seats are my worst nightmare. My knees always end up jammed into the seat in front of me, and this time was no different—only worse. My mom and I were flying home after visiting my grandparents. The flight was packed, and we were stuck in economy, a.k.a. legroom prison. As soon as I got settled, the man in front of me—dressed in a sharp business suit—smashed his seat all the way back without even glancing behind him. My knees were instantly crushed. I asked,
politely if he could move his seat up just a little. He didn’t care. “I paid for this seat,” he said flatly, and went back to typing on his laptop. Even the flight attendant couldn’t change his mind. He refused to budge, claiming it was his right. I was beyond frustrated—until inspiration struck. I reached into my mom’s bag,
sweet legroom. The flight attendant passed by with a subtle thumbs-up. My mom leaned over and whispered, “Clever. A little sneaky, but clever.” I smiled. It may not have been the most mature move, but I could finally breathe—and stretch. Next time? Maybe we’ll just upgrade to first class.
