I plopped myself into a chair near the front of Gate 18D on Jan. 25 at Sacramento International Airport, taking a final swig of my 32-oz Diet Coke. The plane would arrive in 40 minutes, so I leaned back for some doom-scrolling.
Then, a friendly Southwest Airlines agent approached me, asking to see my e-ticket. A lady in a pink track suit and matching headphones next to me perked up, probably wondering if some meme-worthy security meltdown was about to unfold.
I just smiled, knowing what was about to happen before I even handed over my ticket.
“We are going to have to get you a second seat,” the Southwest woman said, perfectly pleasant and nonjudgmental. “You don’t have to get up. I will take care of it for you.”
OK. It’s impossible not to feel bruised when a stranger assesses your size and determines you are too big to fit into a plane seat. But that did not begin to describe the emotions running through my mind.
The plane seat is my crucible — and the most difficult part of every trip. I scrutinize plane maps; consult Reddit about seat dimensions and the retractability of armrests. I study the fine print of each airline’s policies about purchasing another seat “for comfort.”
Two decades ago, I weighed 465 pounds when another Southwest attendant stopped me from boarding at Burbank Airport and very loudly requested my credit card for a second seat. A few years later, despite much internet research, I mistakenly picked a “premium” seat with fixed armrests that would not raise and give me more room. Even so, my seat mate demanded to be moved, offering a mournful “sorry, mate” as a flight attendant whisked him a few rows up.
The only way I got to a wedding in Istanbul was by sitting precariously on top of my carry-on bag, the most uncomfortable 10 hours of my life. On the return, British Airways determined my nearly 500-pound body needed three seats to make it without incident.
So buying that extra seat became my standard practice. It was expensive. Most of my travel was for work, and I only charged the newspaper for one seat. But it was not a big deal. It made travel far less stressful and more comfortable. I tried business class once, but the price was too high and the seat still too tight. But I took deep pride in getting out in the world with a body that I feared was going to eventually reach shut-in status. A few hundred bucks was not so bad for that privilege, that freedom.
The issue of big people and small airplane seats has long been tabloid fodder and red meat for message board posters. There’s one plus-size social influencer whose Instagram travel posts have kept the British tabs in business by lashing out against “fat phobic” critics. Some activists argue the practice of forcing overweight people to buy an extra seat amounts to “fat shaming.”
But I never believed that. The fact is my body does spill out onto someone else’s seat. I won’t go to war on this rare instance where my size actually affects other people.
Then a few years ago, I had gastric sleeve surgery. I weighed about 325 pounds when I flew to a wedding in New York. I got two United Airlines seats but felt so comfortable I wondered whether one was enough. For insurance, I kept buying two for cross-country trips but began to tempt fate on my frequent Southwest shuttles to Sacramento and the Bay Area.
At the time, each Southwest trip was a game of roulette.
I paid a few bucks extra to board first, selected my row and dared anyone to join me. On other airlines, I hated looking at all the passengers boarding, afraid of that look of disappointment, or worse, when they discovered I’d be their seat mate for the next five hours. But with Southwest’s open seating, it was every man for himself. So instead of hunkering down and trying to look as small as possible, I spread out, extending my legs and finding a comfortable position.
I used this strategy nearly two dozen times, and not once did someone sit next to me, even on flights that looked close to full. The winning streak continued on Friday, Jan. 23, when I flew from Long Beach to Sacramento.
Then came the Sunday return flight and the Southwest agent’s gate-side approach.
I didn’t feel ashamed. I didn’t feel outraged or slighted. I really didn’t care what the woman in pink thought. During the pandemic, I’d gained back more than 30 pounds. Maybe that sealed my fate? Or was it that giant Coke cup or that blue sweater a size too small that made me a target?
A few minutes later, I got the truth.
Southwest was preparing in a few days to ditch open seating and go to preassigned seat sales. Ahead of the policy change it appeared the airline was cracking down in advance. My plane was only half full, so the attendant simply printed me a second ticket for no charge. I would have had to pay full freight if the plane was full. She was so matter-of-fact about it that she turned a conversation that once brought me such humiliation into something pleasant, with me thanking her profusely.
There was a time when a stop from the airline seat cop would fill me with shame and rage, mostly at myself. I always vowed to go on another diet. Never fly again until I could fit into one seat. Shun the airport for Interstate 5, where no one could see how I fit into my bucket seat.
As I boarded, I placed both my tickets in front of the scanner without worrying about what everyone behind me would think. I was told to place the extra ticket on the seat next to me so others would know it was taken. But I didn’t. I got myself relaxed in my chair and looked up at the boarding passengers, enjoying Southwest open seating roulette one last time.
I’ve learned over the years no one will accept my weight unless I do. I have trouble fitting into an economy plane seat. That is a physics and pricing problem, not a character flaw.
