On the Flight to San Jose

    I am supposed to be working. I have the bags, under the seat in front, full of papers. I am not working. I am listening.

    I have a colleague who hates to fly Southwest because he invariably finds himself next to a morbidly obese passenger in the middle seat. This has never happened to me.

    I have never found myself next to a morbidly obese passenger. No, I find myself next to mothers who break my heart.

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