I’m Carly. I’m 32. I’m obese. Not the “plus-size model” kind. The kind that makes strangers feel entitled to critique what’s in my grocery cart or whisper when I board a plane. Which is why I always buy two seats when I fly—one for me, and one for the peace of not squishing next to someone who’d rather I disappear.
On a solo work trip to a conference in Westlake, I did what I always do: booked a window seat and the adjacent middle seat. It cost me an extra $176, but it was worth every penny.
I boarded early, got settled, armrest up, and started reading the safety card.
Then they showed up.
“Babe, look! I can sit next to you after all!” the man said, already halfway into my middle seat.
He was all smug swagger and too much cologne. She was all lip gloss and attitude. They saw my empty middle seat like it was free real estate.
“Sorry,” I said, as politely as possible. “I paid for both seats.”
The guy blinked. “Seriously? You bought two seats? Just for yourself?”
“Yes. For personal space. Please find your assigned seats.”
He chuckled and plopped down anyway. His girlfriend sat across the aisle and leaned in with a pout. “We just want to sit together. Don’t be such a—”
And then she said it: “fat jerk.”
Loud enough for people around us to hear. Loud enough to make my face burn.
I could’ve called the flight attendant. I could’ve argued. But instead, I smiled.
“Sure. Keep the seat.”
Once we were airborne, I reached into my bag and pulled out a family-sized bag of kettle chips. Crunchy ones.
“Hope you don’t mind,” I said sweetly, ripping the bag open like a thunderclap.
I adjusted. I stretched. I elbowed—gently, of course. Every time he shifted, I took the space back. My tablet, my water bottle, my snack bag—it all took room. My room.
After twenty minutes of subtle resistance, he finally snapped: “Can you stop moving around so much?”
I smiled. “Just getting comfortable. In my seats.”
“This is one seat,” he growled.
“Nope,” I said, “this is one and a half seats. The half you’re sitting in? Mine too.”
He jabbed the call button. The flight attendant arrived. He ranted. I calmly raised two fingers.
“I paid for both 14A and 14B.”
She checked. Confirmed. Then turned to him. “Sir, your assigned seat is 22C.”
His face dropped. He stood up, humiliated, and stomped toward the back.
As he left, his girlfriend hissed, “You seriously bought an extra seat just because you’re too fat for one? Pathetic.”
The flight attendant turned. “That language is unacceptable, ma’am. Please refrain from speaking that way to other passengers.”
They slunk away. I exhaled.
The flight attendant—Jenn—lingered. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Thanks for backing me up,” I said.
An hour later, I saw them again. Arguing with another flight attendant, trying to swap seats with strangers to sit together again. They were told no. Loudly.
I pressed the call button.
Jenn came back. I kept my voice low. “Just so you know… earlier, she called me a ‘fat jerk.’ It really upset me.”
Jenn’s smile disappeared. “That’s considered harassment. Would you be willing to file a report when we land?”
“Absolutely.”
She nodded. “We’ll make a note of it. And for what it’s worth, you have every right to take up the space you paid for.”
That small moment—that someone saw me, defended me—meant more than I could say.
When we landed, I waited until we were nearly off the plane. Then, loud enough for both of them and nearby passengers to hear, I said: “Next time, maybe think twice before stealing someone’s seat and insulting them. Some of us are just trying to exist without being harassed.”
She flushed crimson. He stared at the overhead bins like they were suddenly fascinating. An older woman gave me a quiet thumbs-up.
At the customer service desk, I filed my report. Three days later, I got an email from the airline:
“We’ve reviewed the incident on Flight 2419. The behavior you reported violates our passenger conduct policy and has been noted in their travel profiles. As an apology, we’ve added 10,000 bonus miles to your account.”
I forwarded it to my boyfriend, Matt. He replied: That’s my girl. Taking up exactly the space you deserve.
Because that’s the truth: whether it’s a plane seat or your place in the world, no one has the right to tell you you’re too much. Especially when you’ve paid your way.
I wish I’d learned that earlier. But I’m glad I finally did—at 35,000 feet.
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