It has to be one of the most uncomfortable feelings in recent memory for me, as I sat there suffering in silence thinking of the regrettable choice that I made in attire. Though not a problem on previous trips, it most certainly was one now. I loathe a warmup or shorts on flights, I’m old school. I’m just now really traveling in jeans or khakis having given up the old school notion of “dress to impress” for a flight, but right now these jeans ain’t hittin.
I wore the jeans sans belt because I don’t have that TSA pre-check (#$;#$$) meaning I have to pass through regular security and place my whole life in those bins. Wearing a belt was not a priority. However, the lycra in these bad boys have reached their outer limit. What formerly was comfy and roomy has become the binding for my shame. I made it just fine to the airport and to the gate but when I strapped into my teeny economy seat the unthinkable happened and thank God no one could see.
I felt air hit, I pulled my shirt down and pulled my hoodie down in the back, lest I reveal to no one and nothing but the seat I was sitting in my issue, my shame,
my plumber’s crack.
I don’t know that the belt could cover the sins of my diet the last 18 months or so. My a@$ is fat to the tune of +45 lbs in the brief aforementioned timespan. So I sat and suffered in silence while plotting how I would leave my seat and reach for my bag in the overhead without revealing my whole a@$.