I took the redeye to Chicago this morning, which means I set the alarm for 3:30 a.m. I thought, no problem, I can catch almost two hours of shuteye on the plane. Wrong!

First, let me start out by applauding American Airlines for enforcing the two-bag carry on rule (okay, one bag and one personal item which can be pretty darn large by the looks of things.) We’ve all heard the rule and then witnessed the business person (or tourist) laden with roller bag, duffel bag, and a brief case or jumbo-sized purse just breeze right on by the attendant and board the plane. What fries me is the poor sucker who brings on one bag and there’s no space left in the overheads to hold it. It won’t fit under the seat so they’re forced to check the bag while Joe and Sally 3-bagger sit smugly in their seats and simply whisk their stuff off the plane upon landing. Yes, I’ve been the poor sucker who had to check a carry-on bag that ended up getting lost, that had my car keys in it because you’re supposed to put your car keys and medicines in your carry-on. But that’s a story for another day. Thank you, AA, for enforcing the two-bag rule.

So, picture this. You’re sitting in the airport holding coral and survey your fellow passengers. If you’re anything like me, I should say if your luck is anything like mine when it comes to flying, scan the scene and pick out the largest passenger you see or the most obnoxious one. Guaranteed, that’s the one who’ll be sitting next to me. And yup, it happened again this morning.

I’m not a big person. I don’t even hit 5’2” and I tend more toward the thinner side of the scale than the heavy side. I mean, I just don’t take up a lot of space. I can sit in the airline seat and have enough room to shove a good size purse between me and the airplane body. I don’t do this, and you’ll see why in a moment, but I could if I wanted to. Don’t get me wrong. I sincerely empathize with the tall and broad among us. My husband tops 6’5” and talk about being crammed packed into an airline seat. His knees are in his chest and he silently prays through the whole flight that the person in front of him does not put his seat back. Truly, I get it.

But for heaven’s sake, my seat is my seat—not your seat. I don’t even mind that all men, and I mean every last one I’ve ever flown next to or between, believes they have a God-given right to the arm rest. If you’re a woman, forget it. Don’t even try to claim it—it doesn’t belong to us. So I gladly relinquish the armrest upon boarding. But OMG. Can I have my seat? I would appreciate not holding your papers in my lap, or having my shoulders bumped fifteen thousand times in flight. A few times is understandable, I get the plight of big folks in a tiny airline seat but after the third or fourth bump, I’ve had enough. The guy this morning could clearly see I was trying to sleep. I crouched myself as close to the window as I could because I knew I was going to have to share my seat. And I did. With his jacket, his thigh, his shoulder, his arm, his phone, his morning paper, and the water bottle. I’m trying to sleep and perhaps out of nervousness (I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt on this one) he squeezed the bottle so it made a popping, cracking sound every time he took a drink. And the guy must have taken his jacket off and put it back on at least six times over the course of two hours. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep.

I just have to resign myself to the fact that even though I can easily fit into the airline seat, I’m by golly going to be just as uncomfortable as those among us who don’t fit into the seats so easily. Sigh. I’ve adjusted my attitude now and I’m packing up the Mac for the connecting flight. I’m surveying my fellow passengers, and, oh, I spot her! She’s the one, jumbo purse and all. Happy flying!