Saving Myself First: The Embarrassing Chronicles of an Emergency Escape Artist
There's only room for one of us in this life boat
I have many positive traits, but being good in a crisis is not one of them.
Maybe not a surprise after reading about that time my dad got scalped by a battery operated train and I helped by taking his picture. This is just one reason why I refuse to be someone’s emergency contact. (Slipping into a blind, rabid panic and throwing my phone across the room whenever it rings is another.) I am aware of my limitations. See? A positive trait!
A Not-So-Positive Trait
On a recent trip to Chicago, I got to sit in the emergency exit row. If you haven’t paid the $42 day-off upgrade charge to have the pleasure of assisting the flight crew in the unlikely event of an emergency, let me tell you… it’s pish posh! All that extra legroom. You could fit a Brooklyn apartment in there!
Alaska Airlines flight attendants are not messing around when it comes to training up their civilian rescue squad. Before take off, they arrived at our row, waved their little laminated safety card in our faces, and demanded we put our phones down and listen!
Jeez. Take a chill pill, Diane! Unlikely event…something about a slide…weeeeeee!
But it’s not all stretching your legs and nearly tearing your rotator cuff reaching so far to get to the bag of Smart Food under the seat in front of you. (And it doesn’t even seem that “unlikely” these days. Uhh…wth is going on there?) The flight crew needs to know you are prepared to help complete strangers climb over your duffle bag we all know is much too big to fit under the seat and away from danger. Only once the cabin has been cleared, the drink cart safely stowed, and lavatories restocked with paper towels and Italian Bergamot hand soap, will you—EXIT ROW PASSENGER— be allowed to deplane. Four inches of extra legroom comes with an emotional, spiritual, and physical price to pay!
Do you understand what is expected of you? Use your voice, passenger!
Why did I pay extra for this? They should be paying me! And while we’re at it, I should be allowed to board first. I’m a first responder! Just because a fire didn’t break out during a firefighter’s twenty-four shift doesn’t mean they’re not a hero, right?
But sure, Diane, I understand what is expected of me.
Does that mean I will follow through?
Umm…
Well…
Absolutely not.
“YEP!” I shouted, snuggling deeper into my seat.
I am a Gross Monster
There is a 0% chance I will be helping out in any emergency and not because I don’t want to. I would love to ensure the mom traveling alone with her 2 infants in row 36 safely makes her way onto the wing of the plane, but I can not. I won’t be anywhere near the wing of the plane. After ripping the emergency door open with my teeth and being the first one through it, I will be falling ass over teakettle down that evacuation slide right into a South Dakota alpine meadow.
There is no fight in my amygdala. Only flight. Possibly with a smidgeon of freeze to keep things spicy.
This is, as Carl Jung taught, my shadow self. I want to be an assured and capable, action first, make-sure-everyone-is-safe kind of girl. My medicine cabinet is stocked. I have a portable tire pump in my car in case the air pressure gets low. I have a four-person emergency kit stashed in my garage even though we are a family of three! I am beyond prepared on paper, yet when pushed into action I’ll be as useful as that piece of paper in a bonfire.
But I also really like extra leg room so you can see the conundrum, right?
Okay, maybe not.
Byeeeeee Byeeeeeeee, Bitches!
But Shelly! That can’t be! Surely some altruistic instinct would kick in if there was a real emergency!
There is literal proof of my ineptness:
I had a flight across the country less than a month after 9/11. Yes, I was terrified. We all were. But it was my best friend’s wedding and I was in it. I had to go! I stole a bunch of airline miles from my dad and upgraded my seat to first class thinking the free alcohol would help put my mind at ease (it did.) I got to board first which was nice and was seated next to an adorable and kind elderly woman. A grandma! She emanated the comforting bouquet of cookie dough, Gold Bond powder, and moth balls. I couldn’t wait to fall asleep in her lap.
But then our flight attendant came running out of the cock pit screaming, “GET OFF THE PLANE! GO GO GO!” Clearly the flight attendant and I were cut from the same piece of cloth. (Not gauze.)
Ohmygoditshappening!!!
Don’t have to tell me twice! Oh, I sprung into action alright except my seatbelt was still fastened so that hurt and left a nice bruise across my lower torso. Composing myself, I unbuckled and flung that thing right into the grandma’s bosom and proceeded to partially climb, partially slither over her osteoporosis-riddled bones because my foot got stuck in the strap of my carry-on bag. Once freed, I ran like a bear was chasing me down the aisle, out the door, and back up the jetway. I never looked back until I ran face first into a rack of Sleepless in Seattle nightshirts at Hudson News.
Turns out a fuel truck tipped over on the tarmac and almost sprayed our plane with gasoline. I mean, not great, but maybe I didn’t need to put grandma in traction trying to save myself. So yeah, that was an awkward flight to New Jersey having to listen to her whimpering in pain for six hours1. (KIDDING! I felt bad even writing that, but I had to because I am ruled by things I think
will laugh at.)Me traveling in the exit row is a risk for all of humankind. (One that doesn’t happen often because I usually travel with the child who is blessedly not old enough to sit there.) But aren’t we all taking a giant risk by boarding that plane in the first place? I like to believe an emergency is indeed an unlikely event and we’ll arrive safely to our destination without anyone knowing what a selfish, incompetent chicken face I am. I look around at my cohort of emergency responders and think, That guy has huge biceps, he would love to show them off by piling women over each shoulder and ferrying them onto a life raft or There’s a woman who has spent a few years in the Peace Corps. She’s cool with being the last one off this plane and it makes me feel a tad better about the survival chances for the other 164 passengers on board. We’re in good hands. Just not my hands.
See? I DO think of other people.
My Promise to You
I hope we can still be friends now that you know my gross little secret. And I hope you’re never on a flight with me. But just in case you are…
Here’s what I can guarantee: Should you happen to notice me doing chair Pilates in my exit row seat and instead of showing the flight attendant this post, you say, “Hey, Shelly Mazzanoble! I love your Substack!” (our safe words), I’ll be sure to save you a seat in the life boat.
XO,
Shelly
I ask you, my dearest friends:
Have you ever surprised yourself by actually being competent in an emergency?
Have you ever surprised yourself by being completely inept in an emergency?
Have you ever walked past the exit row on an airplane and thought, Oh hell no am I trusting my life to that middle-aged lady mom in seat 16D!
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I SWEAR she was fine! At least physically. Psychic wounds run deep.
"To thine own self be true" was written just for you, Shelley, and I reckon these days, you might have a bit of competition to be the first off the plane.
Oh my gosh, Shelly, you never fail to disappoint. Every one of your posts is so funny, I end up laugh-crying. Thank you. So awesome. As for emergencies...nope. I kind of freak out and then freeze. Much better if someone else is making decisions. I do NOT sit in the exit row.