When a rude passenger refused to remove his bare foot from my armrest, I gave him an unexpected pedicure while he slept. He was furious afterward, never suspecting that we were about to meet again.
Four hours into an overcrowded flight, I felt something warm graze my elbow. I glanced down and found five bare toes stretched across my armrest. Then I caught the smell.
I twisted in my seat. The passenger behind me was around forty-five, with an expensive watch, headphones over his ears, and his shoes abandoned beneath his seat.
“Excuse me. Could you move your foot?”
He lifted one side of his headphones: “Let them breathe.”
“It’s not touching you.”
“It’s on my armrest.”
“My feet need to breathe.”
“Then let them breathe in your own seat.”
He gave me a smug little grin: “It’s an airplane. We’re all sharing space. So use your other armrest and don’t bother me.”
He replaced his headphones, wiggled his toes, and I faced forward. Ten minutes later, turbulence sent his toes brushing my sleeve. I turned back: “Seriously. Move your foot.”
He let out a dramatic sigh: “Lady, it’s just a foot. You’re acting like I put it on your dinner plate.”
The woman sitting beside me wrinkled her nose: “That’s disgusting.”
He chuckled at us both: “You two need to relax.”
THE BARBIE PEDICURE
I decided that arguing any further would accomplish nothing. About twenty minutes later, he drifted off to sleep, leaving his bare foot only inches from my arm. A mischievous idea occurred to me.
I glanced at my seatmate: “Would you mind blocking his view if he wakes up?”
Her eyebrows shot upward: “Why?”
I leaned toward her and quietly explained what I had in mind. She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh: “Oh, you’re actually doing that? You’re my queen,” she whispered, winking at me. “By the way, I’m Diane.”
“Rebecca.”
“Well, Rebecca, this is officially the most entertaining flight I’ve ever taken. Consider me your lookout.”
I reached beneath the seat ahead of me, retrieved my carry-on, and eased the zipper open. I’d been away for five days on business, and my eight-year-old daughter, Megan, was expecting a special present—a Barbie-themed beauty kit containing six pink polishes and plastic rings with giant imitation gemstones.
I took out the brightest polish as Diane screened me from other passengers. Carefully, I brushed a coat of hot pink onto his big toenail. He didn’t move. I worked across the other visible nails, choosing a different pink shade for each one, while Diane shook with silent laughter.
With the painting finished, I chose two toy rings: one crowned with an oversized pink diamond, the other bearing a glittery purple heart. I slipped them onto his toes, trying to keep my hands steady.
At that precise moment, he stirred, mumbled, turned toward the window, and resumed snoring. Five bright pink toenails and two sparkling rings—it was magnificent…
