Congratulations. It's an exit row seat. The glorious salvation from 29" pitch in SAS Punishment Class. I smile and settle in, even buckling my seatbelt to make sure no one removes me from this economy throne. I stash a book or two in the marsupial pouch in front of me and clip my iPod to my belt. No matter how bad the day was, I am determined to enjoy this flight.

Then She shows up. You know the one. Blond, her hair cropped short, she wears her make-up like a racoon. "Excuse me, sir." She is always very polite. "Would you be willing to switch seats with my boyfriend?" She points and smiles innocently to Her boyfriend a few rows up in 14E. That's right: E. It's a middle seat. He has just managed to unwedge himself from between the drunk German tourist and the photocopy salesman to look my direction with wide, imploring eyes.

Several scenarios run through my head. I could ignore her completely. Better yet, I might pretend not to speak English. Though there's bound to be a French translator on board. What I really want to say is "Piss off." Of course, She asked loudly enough that several of my neighbors are now only pretending to do their sudoku. They are waiting for my answer. Am I a spiteful and selfish person who despises people in love? They just want to sit together afterall. It's a two hour flight. Am I a bitter, destroyer of love, friendship and human peace?

No one takes note, as I do, that She asks ME. Neither the drunk German or the photocopy salesman were consulted in this negotiation. Come to think of it, perhaps they might quite enjoy sitting in the exit row. Legroom galore. And a nice seatmate that is not drunk, fat or selling anything.

I smile. "You know, I bet one of your boyfriend's neighbors would love to sit in the exit row!" I gesture suggestively towards the photocopy salesman. "Did you ask him?" Suddenly, her face turns from meek to mad as if I had just suggested she roll in a pile of mud like a demented sow. She stomps back to row 14 to make the offer. My neighbors calmly return to their sudoku, satisfied that I am indeed the Grinch of the Skies. But I don't care.

My iPod drowns out the sounds of the photocopy salesman as he sleeps next to me during the flight. His snores are punctuated every so often by what I can only imagine are sighs of happiness. Congratulations. This is an exit row seat.