As I sit here in my aisle seat of Row 23, she is cramped into the window seat of the same row. No one dared take the seat between us, as her arm rest won't fit down, and she is encroaching a few inches of the middle seat. Leaning into the window, arms folded tightly in front of her, chin tucked in, she's trying to make herself as small as she can. Her too short, unbuckled seatbelt is hidden beneath her hoodie. I can feel her hoping the flight attendant doesn't notice as she passes by for the safety check.
Why do I know all this? She is me. Five years ago. Well, "she" isn't literally me...she is real....and sitting in the same row as me as I type this on my Southwest flight to Florida. I want to reach over and hug her. I want to tell her I feel her pain. I want to tell her there is hope. Why do I feel so bonded to this person? She has the same hair color as me. She's about the same age. She's about the same size I was. I used to sit the same way. I used to do the same seat belt trick before I got enough confidence (and safety minded) to ask for the extender. I so want to start a conversation with her, but probably won't.
As I type this, I look at me in my seat. Legs crossed, tray table down. Excess seat belt. Didn't have to give a second though to my seat selection. She's wearing stretchy jeans and a long navy hoodie, the uniform of please don't notice me. I used to do the same. I'm wearing ankle cropped pants, sparkly flats, and a flamboyant red printed scarf. A look at me outfit. Row 23 is a reminder to me of my transformation in every way. I started this by saying she IS me. As I'm ending it, I'm realizing she WAS me.
I so want to hug this woman, and tell her about the DS.
Why do I know all this? She is me. Five years ago. Well, "she" isn't literally me...she is real....and sitting in the same row as me as I type this on my Southwest flight to Florida. I want to reach over and hug her. I want to tell her I feel her pain. I want to tell her there is hope. Why do I feel so bonded to this person? She has the same hair color as me. She's about the same age. She's about the same size I was. I used to sit the same way. I used to do the same seat belt trick before I got enough confidence (and safety minded) to ask for the extender. I so want to start a conversation with her, but probably won't.
As I type this, I look at me in my seat. Legs crossed, tray table down. Excess seat belt. Didn't have to give a second though to my seat selection. She's wearing stretchy jeans and a long navy hoodie, the uniform of please don't notice me. I used to do the same. I'm wearing ankle cropped pants, sparkly flats, and a flamboyant red printed scarf. A look at me outfit. Row 23 is a reminder to me of my transformation in every way. I started this by saying she IS me. As I'm ending it, I'm realizing she WAS me.
I so want to hug this woman, and tell her about the DS.