The Window Seat

Perspective

I always choose a window seat when I fly because (a) I’m a little claustrophobic and (b) the earth unfurling below is a continuous marvel. Cloud shadows drifting over fields. Crops planted in perfect circles with a little pie slice sometimes missing. Rivers threading through canyons. Cities glittering like sequins. What a show!

Recently I paid extra for a window seat only to discover that there is no window in row 10. Not to worry. It was a short flight, and I tamped down the feeling that I was encased in a sarcophagus, pulled out my novel and escaped into another time and another place.

For my connecting flight, I changed my seat.

The customer service representative beamed, “I can give you extra leg room, too!”

Since my daughter had just informed me that she suspects I am body dysmorphic because I’m convinced I’m bigger than I am, I was absurdly pleased by this confirmation that I do not present as dachshund-sized. I texted her immediately. My phone pinged with the laugh emoji and a suggestion that I was a whippet, not a dachshund.

In the air, I gazed out the window at the endless space. Below me, mountains loomed—ancient, magnificent, shrunk to fit in my little window. A reminder that the amount of space something appears to take up depends entirely perspective.