You, madam, are a bitch. There is no other way to put it. You pushed your way down the aisle to get to your seat as if someone had plans to snatch it. You didn’t want to let me into my seat, which was, unfortunately, 27A.
You read the paper with your spidery hand extended very near my face. You sighed loudly at the things you read, made clucking noises, and laughed loudly — all without acknowledging there were other humans near you. You ignored me, which was fine because I am not a flight chatter, but I sensed contempt.
I tried not to touch your leathery, chapped elbow as you took up more than your share of armrest. I pretended I was on a recliner in first class. Alone.
When we landed, you leaped into the aisle like you were Maurren Higa Maggi. I never expected that someone of your advanced age could be so spry.
But you still had to wait to get off the plane, just like everyone else. And you are still a bitch.
Observe and report 
I’ve met her. I think I’ve met her a few times. I usually wind up referring to her as “Princess,” in the most derogatory tone possible. I’m so sorry you were confined on a plane with her. I hope for not too long. Maybe, just maybe, they lost her luggage and the karmic debt she owed was repaid.
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Ha! And I still would take this woman before Chatty Chatterson. Just ’cause I’m sitting 4 inches from you and can smell the burrito on your breath, doesn’t mean I have anything to say. (insert loud sigh and a nudge with my leathery elbow)
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I met Princess! However, she was dressed as a fat ass and put his tricep fat on my shoulder! Very funny, Andrea. I know of whom you speak and that person has also melted the one side of my face. Make me feel like I’ve been to the dentist.
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I am not a chatterer, nor am I an invader of other people’s personal space, but I might well be guilty of audible whispers, gasps, and laughter while I read. I occasionally catch myself doing this in public and realize I sound like a freak. But I do it without meaning to; when it happens it’s because I’m that engrossed in whatever I’m reading. Whereas it sounds like this woman was trying to make the point that she didn’t care about (or even acknowledge) the people around her.
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She was not engrossed. She wanted the spectacle.
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I hope you do not mind if I respond to your post too. I sat next to her when she was middle aged and plump. Her sweaty thigh rubbed against my leg for two and a half hours and her enormous upper arm overtook the entire upper right side of my body. Her perfume mixed with the scent of her dime store hair spray was a rude and offensive intrusion of my space. She made me want to shove her onto her skinny husband (who sat in the aisle seat where she should have been BETWEEN HIM AND THE AISLE instead of plastered beside me) and push them both to the aisle.
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You can respond anytime! Especially if it is to talk about sweaty thighs. Yum!
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