When I arrive at row 19, an old man in the aisle seat gets up to let me by to seat E. As I step past him, he hacks up a nasty wet-sounding cough. I whip out my hand sanitizer.

When the plane finally roars to life, I’m squished between the sick old man and a guy who’s six foot seven. I can’t help but crave the safety of my big sweatshirts. I feel so exposed. I miss my hood. It’s my own personal travel-sized cubby hole to hide in whenever I need to.

As we take off, I feel exhaustion setting in—an anxiety crash coming after a day full of chatting, hiking, and hair styling with Jamie.

I jolt awake as the plane rumbles.

The speakers crackle. “We’re experiencing turbulence, please buckle your seat belts.”

I don’t even remember falling asleep.

My back aches, a low pulse travels down my legs. I need to get up.

I’m so groggy. I don’t usually fall asleep on planes. I glance around with my limited range of middle seat movement. As I do, my bladder presses needily against my stomach. Excrement. I really need to get up.

The men next to me have nodded off as well. I hate asking people to get up.

I mean … I strongly dislike it because it’s really annoying to annoy people. Especially if they’re asleep. I don’t know what the silver lining is to asking people to move on planes.

I tap at the touchscreen in front of me and open the flight map. A CGI globe opens and zooms slowly in on the West Coast of the United States. We’re over Nevada. We still have an hour left on the flight.

My back pulses harder. The old man in the aisle seat’s head is lolling to the left. I poke him and hold my breath.

He doesn’t react.

Excrement, excrement. Now that I’m anxious, I have to pee twice as much. I press my lips together, calculating the path over him to the center aisle.

I should not risk climbing over him. I could fall and hurt myself more.

I glance around for a flight attendant. No one’s in the vicinity to watch.

Well, I’m going to climb over him.

Jamie would do it.

Carefully, I unbuckle and hoist my feet onto the seat. Once I’m crouched in a ball, I rise as much as possible, slowly with my back straight, and step onto the empty left armrest on the ball of my left foot.

Please don’t wake up.

I carefully raise my right foot, spin to the left 180 degrees, and place it on the armrest closest to the aisle, behind the man’s bony age-spotted elbow.

Exhale.

Okay. Now I’m straddling him.