The Exit Row
What a thrill, choosing your seat for your flight next month. With enough forethought (and cash), you can have the experience you’ve always dreamed of. The exit row, aisle seat, is yours for the taking.
You’re a do-er. Slip-ons for TSA, a Pez dispenser full of Ambien, arriving 3 hours before boarding, you’ve checked every box. Mom and Dad taught you from an early age that anything could happen on your way to the proverbial gate. Best be prepared, and your first step to salvation was your choice of the exit row, aisle seat.
6'3", athletic build, and not an ounce of stubble for that 6am transcontinental excursion. Some may think you picked the exit row for the extra legroom, considering your above-average height. There is no truth to that statement. You picked it, because you have crippling trust issues.
Somewhere between Minneapolis-St. Paul and Detroit, there is a body of water. Lake Michigan. Big as hell. When the plane malfunctions, and it will malfunction, there is a non-zero probability of a water landing. Growing up, papa always talked of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the Eddie Fitz. Sunk like a stone in Lake Superior, victim to a tremendous storm. Now, we can’t say for certain what actions the captain took in those moments, doing his damn best to thwart God’s maritime wrath. However, when disaster strikes your Boeing 737 over Lake Michigan, you will know DAMN well how to act.
Who else could say the same? They don’t have your forethought, your level-headed heart rate, that stone-cold jawline. Anyone else would be floundering like a fish trying to open that door. Considering your 401(k) has not vested yet, there is no way in hell you will be succumbing to a watery grave at 25. So you’ve prepared.
Every night, for 7 years, you have read through latch protocol for every commercial US airplane. You’ve walked through the steps. Every maneuver, mastered. Every lever, pulled. Sometimes, late at night, you lie awake. A bit excited, you can’t stop imagining how much the Presidential Medal of Freedom weighs.
