On the Flight to San Jose
I am supposed to be working. I have the bags, under the seat in front, full of papers. I am not working. I am listening.
I have a colleague who hates to fly Southwest because he invariably finds himself next to a morbidly obese passenger in the middle seat. This has never happened to me.
I have never found myself next to a morbidly obese passenger. No, I find myself next to mothers who break my heart.