johnmaconline

Through the haze, I heard the agent mutter something about a seat reassignment. 

He quickly confiscated my boarding pass and handed me a new one. At first, the obscene markings on the new boarding pass didn’t even register, but then I focused my eyes and understood — seat 37E.

The fog lifted, and I became razor-focused on my surroundings.

WHAT??!!! 37E??!!!

I didn’t know exactly where 37E was, but I knew it was a) near the back of the plane and b) in the freakin middle seat of the middle aisle.

And the wheels fell off.

I don’t know who grabbed control. Obviously, it was some version of me, but I never want to meet that guy again. Do we all have this ugly infant inside of us?

I had a full-on out-of-body experience because one appalled part of my brain. I remember thinking, “Oh my God, stop!” I couldn’t, though. 

At one point, the agent asked me to please step aside so that the manager on duty could help me without holding up the process. 

I simply refused, like a child.

“I’m staying right here, blocking this line, until this is fixed!”

I was yelling and waving my arms. I wouldn’t be surprised if I stomped my foot at some point. At one point, I left the gate agent, stewed on it some more, and returned to pick up the fight. But in the end, I got no satisfaction. 

I was flying home in seat 37E.

We land in Doha at 4:30 am local time, but the airport looks like 9 pm on a Saturday night in Times Square. 

People and overly brilliant lights everywhere. No escape. 

I’m as introverted as they come. I enjoy less people so much more than more people. And when I’m agitated, I prefer even less people. At this point, I haven’t slept for over 24 hours. 

The InstantPot in me is now building pressure.

Luckily we have a savior in the form of my boss. He has a pass to the Qatar Airlines lounge and is happy to bring us. All we have to do is cut through the haze of brain fog and exhaustion, wade through the crowd, and find the lounge. 

We stumble upon the lounge. Yet another line, but upon entry, we sit down with some sparkling water and snacks to kill the next couple of hours.

Snacks and sparkling water. WTF is wrong with you? Quit your bitching. You live like a king.

An hour before boarding, in full zombie mode, I waded through the masses and found my way to the gate. 

After a quick and easy gate-entry security check, I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent for what I assumed was simply verification of my identity and acknowledgment that the passenger in seat 23D was at the gate.

That’s when the lid blew off the InstantPot. 

The journey started rough in Armenia.

Flights from Yerevan to Doha leave at 3 am local time. My colleagues and I worked all day, relaxed for a few hours in the evening, and then made our way to the airport. 

No sleep. 

We arrived in a brain fog at the airport to crowds, slow lines, and odd rules. At one point, an Armenian TSA officer confiscated my friend’s laptop. Not mine, though. What was the difference? After some difficult conversation, they hand it back, and we’re on our way to the gate. 

What just happened there? We still don’t know. 

Window seat on a 737. Tight, but maybe I’ll be able to lean against it and doze a bit for the three-hour flight. 

A young couple takes their seats next to me, and the friendly man sits in the middle, likely to shield his partner from the grumpy old man in the window seat. We exchange some pleasant conversation while the remaining passengers board.

I’m already glassy-eyed. I don’t blame the guy for shielding his partner.

Wheels up, and somehow, inexplicably, my formerly talkative neighbor falls sound asleep. Snoring. How does one fall sound asleep in coach? In the middle seat? 

It helps if you take over half of your neighbor’s seat.

So the next three hours were an exercise in physical and mental tension. I’m straining to keep myself out of his way, yet I’m smashed against the fuselage.

It’s uncomfortably warm, I’m exhausted, I have no place for my feet, I’m trying not to touch the guy next to me, my back hurts, and I’m hungry.

I’m starting to feel like an InstantPot full of rice, and someone just locked my lid and pushed the “go” button.

Even at 50, I couldn’t stop stamping my feet, waving my arms, and generally making an ass out of myself.

I squirm just thinking about it.

The occasion was a flight home from Armenia. My itinerary called for three hours from Armenia to Qatar, a 3-hour layover in Doha, and then 14 straight hours to Philly.

All in coach.

Although I’d never done this particular trip, I have flown many similar trips that were 13-16 hours on one leg of the journey. I’ve been to China nine times.

Always in coach.

If you’ve ever spent 14 hours in coach, you know that your personal seating arrangement on that long flight can make all of the difference between tolerable and miserable.

You have your preference — window, aisle, or middle. The correct one for you makes all the difference. And an empty seat next to you? That’s the emotional equivalent of hitting the $300M lottery.

I’m twitchy, and I prefer the perceived freedom of the aisle. Just the fact that I can get up whenever or flop my leg into the aisle, if even for just a few seconds, satisfies my twitchy mind like a calming balm.

When booking this particular trip, I chose the best under-the-circumstances seat for the leg from Doha to Philly — seat 23D on the inside aisle.

As perfect as can be expected for 14 hours in coach.

I don’t believe in “no regrets.”

I think it’s a bullshit mantra of the narcissistic hustle culture. Rock star-wannabe entrepreneurs, tech bros, influencers, and “sell me this pen” dickheads. Justification for living an outlandish life.

Because if you have no regrets, that means a) you’ve never tried something that didn’t work, b) you’ve never lost control of your emotions, or c) you’re a self-centered bastard. 

I certainly have some, and they generally fall into two categories: regrets of omission and roads not taken (the what-ifs) or regrets of things I have said or done.

This next phase of storytelling will focus on regrets. Not so much the what-if regrets. What’s the point of that? Any road not taken materially deviates from the road I did take, and I focus daily on gratitude for where I am and who I am with. 

But I sure have done some stuff I regret. 

The thing about regrets, though, is that each one is a lesson. A lesson in how to improve. A lesson in self-control. A lesson in being human. 

I now had an opportunity, but it would require going out of character.

I would have to open my mouth and talk to the stranger next to me.

But here’s another thing about me — I hate waiting. And this guy, who walked in at the same moment I did, didn’t wait at all. I summoned the courage. 

“How did you know that blue shirt was the right guy and get waited on so quickly?”

“I didn’t. But look around. What do you see?”

I just blinked. I had nothing.  

“Every single person in this store has their face buried in their device. Even the people talking to a blue shirt. They’re all the same. Nameless and faceless.”

All you gotta do to get waited on is stand out just a little. So I walk in with my head up, immediately make eye contact, and smile at the first blue shirt I see inside the door. Without breaking eye contact, I walk right around the cloud of people milling about. If they aren’t the right person, they tell me who to see, and then I repeat that process.”

I asked, “But don’t you feel bad about skipping the line?”

“What line?

The Apple Store doesn’t have a line. On purpose. Those people are just standing there because they don’t know what to do. They don’t know how to stand out. So they fade into the background.”

Huh.

Sometimes it pays to keep your head up and your mind open.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to not stand out. 

Fit in. Fade into the back. Stay comfortable. Don’t speak up. Wait my turn.

Maximize my sameness.

“I was just overwhelmed by how invisible he was. Just his shear mediocrity was hard to deny. It was so attractive.”

That makes sense, right?

Which brings me to the Apple Store, or as like I call it — The Introvert’s Torture Chamber. No customer service desk. No discernable line. No signs. Just a sea of co-mingled blue-shirted workers and customers running around doing extroverted things. 

Torture for anyone looking to maximize their sameness.

Once, however, I found an unlikley guide that has forever changed my Apple Store experience and taught me a life lesson in how and when to stand out. 

Needing to replace my laptop keyboard, I approached the door at the Philly Apple Store simultaneously with another guy. I held it for him, followed him in, and walked into the nightmare. 

Inside the door, a haphazard cloud of 10 or 12 customers milled about in front of a group of three blue-shirts. 

What’s my next move? I guess I’ll just stand here. 

But I watched with amazement as this guy I held the door for found the correct blue-shirt guy, checked in, and walked directly over to a table to wait for help within 60 seconds. Ten minutes later, after waiting my turn, I found myself standing next to him at our appointed table.

Here was my chance. 

Sometimes you just need a push. 

The other time I was compelled to overcome my fear of heights was in front of a bunch of teenagers. Luckily, I got a push.

We spend the Sunday of workcamp week on team-building exercises. If you’ve ever been to summer camp or a corporate retreat, you’re probably familiar with many of these activities — low-ropes stuff such as alligator crossing and the spider web. 

But sometimes, we did high-ropes courses. 

High-ropes courses are teamwork plus personal battles. And for me, or anyone with a fear of heights, a big-time personal battle. Fun for all on the two-line cable crossings, unstable bridges, and the suspended cargo net. If you freeze up, or can’t participate, everyone knows your shame. 

At this particular course, you end your time in the tree tops with a zipline trip down the hill. Fun!

I traverse the course with sweaty palms and weak knees, determined not to let these bouncy and bubbly teens see me struggling. I don’t look down. I never look down.

I make it to the zipline platform. Phew, I’ve done it. They won’t know. 

I hook in with some help from a worker and freeze. Like on the 10 meter platform, I can’t make myself jump off. I have no idea why my brain let me make it through the rest of the course but froze up here at the end. Maybe it’s because there’s nothing under me. Maybe I don’t trust that itty-bitty cable. Regardless, I can’t do it.

So I come up with a solution. I turn my head to the zipline-hooker-upper guy behind me and say, “Push me,” fully expecting to have to explain my novel idea.

I start to formulate my explanation, but to my surprise, he just smiles and says, “Sure thing.” This was not his first rodeo. 

And he pushes me. 

A thousand feet of exhilaration later, with my feet firmly planted on the ground, I feel the butterflies, but this time of joy.  

If you can’t do it yourself, get some help.

Twice in my life, I “overcame” a fear of heights with help from others. And by help, I mean physical help. A push, to be exact.

During a summer semester at Penn State, my friends and I liked to go to the pool on campus. The pool had a diving area complete with a 10-meter platform.

“Sure, let’s do it!”

Four of us climbed the ladder and waited at the platform’s back end. I watched two friends saunter out to the edge, peer down and jump off, piercing the water feet first.

My turn. I walked out just like my buddies, looked down, and froze. Over 30 feet in the air, plus the depth of the pool. It may as well have been a thousand feet.

I stood there for what seemed like and hour and could not will myself to jump, no matter how hard I tried. My lizard brain was locked up. Now my buddy behind me sees what’s happened and starts hazing me. So do my friends below. They’re on me hard.

I can’t do it, so I turn around and walk back to climb down the ladder, fully prepared for the relentless hazing that would fill the remainder of the day. It’s gonna suck, but it’s the only way.

But my friend behind me is having none of this. He blocks my way to the ladder, turns me around, and gives me shove.

Somehow that worked. With the momentum from the shove, I started running, stared straight ahead, and just ran off the end. Next thing I know, I’m swimming to the edge of the pool.

Yes, it was 100% peer pressure, but without that shove, I’d never be able to say I did it, and I’m glad I did. How many thousands of people have jumped off that platform and not died? All of them.

The Ben Franklin Bridge became my Mt. Everest. 

I spent three years running around center city Philly at lunchtime. Starting at the gym at 15th and Arch, I could explore the Rocky movie sites, historic district, Penn’s landing, University City, the sports complex (watched the Eagles a bit during training camp), boathouse row, and even had a few scary moments. It was awesome.

But there was no hill. If you’re training for an event, and I often was, you need some hill work.

I found the solution while running along Penn’s Landing at the Delaware river — the bridge! The Ben Franklin Bridge is a mile-long, majestic, arching hill over the river. Perfect. 

So on my next run, I set out for the bridge, feeling a bit smug with my brilliant idea. 

Approaching as a pedestrian is tricky because it hosts seven Vine St Expressway (I676) lanes, commuter rail from Jersey to the city, and the pedestrian walkway. There’s a lot going on, but you can find the walkway entrance on the south side, just past Franklin Square and behind the National Constitution Center. 

The pedestrian walkway sits about 20 feet over the rail, above, and outside the roadway. When on it, you can’t see the road or rails unless you lean over the railing. As I crossed the first time, I approached the crest of the hill and mindlessly peeked over the way-too-short outside railing. 

High (135 ft) — check . 

See straight down — check. 

Mistrust the safety equipment — check. 

Instantly my knees turned to jelly, and my brain locked up. I froze, put my arms out like I was walking a tightrope, tip-toed my way to the inside girder, and hugged a light pole like a long-lost relative. 

What the hell was that? But I couldn’t help it. 

I can only imagine what this looked like to the others on the walkway. Not surprisingly, a few passers-by gave me plenty space on the way by. 

Now what?

I composed myself, turned back toward the entrance, and shuffled the almost half-mile back off the bridge with my hand on the inside girder. Head straight. Eyes forward. Hug the railing.

I was flustered and more than a little embarrassed but also determined. I wasn’t going to let it beat me.

So over the next weeks and months, I kept trying it. Eventually, I made it over. It wasn’t pretty — head straight, eyes forward, hug the inside railing. But I did it.

Over time and repetition, I got to the point where I could run along the outside and even take some quick peeks over the side. My knees still weakened, but the more I did it, the more I could control my mind. More than once, I did hill repeats. 

The fear hasn’t left me, but I’ve learned how to cope and operate in the face of it. Here’s some proof of progress.