On the way to Houston I was given the privilege of sitting in the exit row of the airplane. But with great legroom comes great responsibility. My aislemates and I were tasked with, in case of emergency, saving lives.
I didn't bother reading the safety sheet before I confidently asserted that yes, of course I could perform the duties expected of me. In fact, although I didn't share this with the flight attendant, I was pretty sure I would be the best exit row helper of all.
"How many lives have
you saved so far, Tony?" I would smugly ask the person beside me (who was named Tony) as we helped survivors jump onto the rubber slide and out of the burning wreck that was our plane. I would direct his attention toward the blackboard used to tally our saves, which would have three times the number of tick marks beneath my name than beneath his.
But, of course, number of saves isn't all there is to being a successful exit row helper. There is also a matter of comfort. I don't just want my fellow passengers to survive, I want them to have a great time doing it. If that ride down the rubber slide isn't both thrilling and comfortable, I haven't done my job.
Sadly, nothing catastrophic happened during the flight and we landed at the George Bush Intercontinental airport without me having been given the chance to show what I am capable of. Maybe next time.
