My wife is tiny. Will fit in any overhead storage, as she likes to say. I got in the car the other day after she had been driving it and, as usual, the seat was pushed forward, the steering wheel lowered. So I got in, and adjusted them to suit me.
I got in. Quite a thing. I remember when I test drove my previous car – a big SUV – my stomach touched the steering wheel even with the seat right back. When I went on planes, I was the person nobody wanted to be sitting next to. I’d be crammed in, squished up against the armrests, sometimes accidentally pressing the button to recline the seat with my bulk. I’d suck my stomach in as best I could, desperate to avoid the humiliation of asking for an extension seatbelt. The tray table in front wouldn’t fit into the space my stomach would permit, it would be sitting on top, sloping away from me.
I went in a small plane once, in New Zealand, and the seatbelt wouldn’t stretch around me at all. When I shared taxis with people, I would be the one to diplomatically get in the front seat, to nobody had to cram in next to me. Sometimes ordinary chairs would be too small, sometimes I’d worry about breaking them.
The hyper-awareness of my size, the impact of it on everything I did, the acute sensitivity to the risk of creating embarrassing situations or putting others in an awkward position, pervaded everything I did.
So, the other day, I got into the car, adjusted for my tiny wife. And then I adjusted the seat. There is now a gap between my stomach and the steering wheel. If I ever get to fly again I will fit right in – to my seat and with my fellow passengers.
It feels good.
Suddenly thinner 