The MIDDLE SEAT!

I do confess to amusing myself.  I have been rigorously, tirelessly trying to figure out the loophole in the middle seat tragedy.  I am going to ask my seat mates to switch seats, well aware that no one is going to vacate an aisle seat and occupy a middle seat; if there is any hesitation, I'm going to offer money - maybe a young kid who's going to screw with his pc would rather have cash, begging the question as to how he could afford to fly to Hong Kong; I'm going to work the stewardesses; I'm going to go to every help desk and reservation counter I see; and I am STILL GOING TO BE IN THE MIDDLE SEAT!

I have always liked the tendency of alcoholics to surrender only after they have exhausted every other opportunity.

Here is some advice I've gotten from friends over the last few days, all of it comforting:
LWSJ: "You'll have Kenner and your Higher Power with you every step of the way," and replying to my comment that I was at the point of the trip when I was getting really worked up: "I know it well."  It made me feel less alone.

Spandex: "LAX stands for reLAX."  That was a good one.  Just relax.  Just fucking relax.

One of my grouchy, dear friends from Vacation City Fellowship, agreeing that he gets all worked up, too.  And why, pray tell?  "I don't know - it's just the way we are."

Next stop: SE Asia.