Dear Pygmy-sized lady that boarded my flight yesterday. If your suitcase is larger than you are, even if you're sitting in first class with me, you do not have a god-given right to assistance getting it in the overhead. What I really loved was the half-hearted attempt to pick it up, knowing someone would offer to help. And, yes, I was the one that did it for you.
But, while you were standing there, while I was letting you sweat for a minute, did you really think your beloved Imelda Marcos shoe collection was too good for the baggage hold in the plane's belly? Did the gold bars you had in there breeze through security? Are you in that much of a frickin' hurry?
Do you realize that your bag is supposed to conform to the airline's standard, not the other way around? If you have to turn your carry on bag sideways to get it to fit in the overhead, you just screwed the person next to you out of their alloted space. But, I digress. It's way too easy for me to forget how important and special you must be.
Oh yeah, when the husband and wife who were on different rows approached you about swapping your seat with one of them... was moving back one row that big a deal? Good lord, you'd have thought this was your special good luck seat. The guy next to you didn't mind, but he was probably just happy to get away from your snooty self. Maybe he figured if the plane went down, he might be standing outside the pearrly gates, guilty by proximity?
To you, maven of the airline overhead workout, I offer my salue.