Flying exercise is for the birds

Being Frank, by Frank Ameduri

Song Airlines, a subsidiary of Delta Airlines, plans to offer an exercise program to its passengers beginning this month. For an additional $8 fee, they'll give you a big rubber band, a squeeze ball and some instructions about what to do with them. I can tell you, if one of my seatmates on a long flight breaks out that equipment and starts working out, he won't need the instruction booklet. I'll be happy to tell him what to do with the ball and band.

What on earth, or in the air, have we come to? Isn't flying bad enough? Did some airline executive really say, "Hey. Our seats are too close together, we don't offer anything decent to eat anymore and we've reduced the number of pillows and blankets on all our flights. Is there anything else we can do to make the flying experience less bearable? Hey, what if we get people working out in mid-air? That's weird."

Flying is already pretty stressful for me. No matter which seat I reserve, I always get guilted or shafted into the middle seat, and my window and aisle neighbors are always two or three times my size. One of them ends up with my pillow, and the other gets my peanuts. Then, one of them wants to strike up a conversation.

"Goin' to Chicago?"

"Yeah. Everyone on this plane is going to Chicago."

She leans across me to talk to the guy by the window.

"You goin' to Chicago?"

"Nope. Naperville."

"What's that?"

"Suburb of Chicago."

The aisle woman leans back to her place, taking my pillow and my New York Times with her. She belches and makes a sour face.

"Thanks for switching seats with me," she says. "Flying makes me all gassy and gives me loose bowels. I gotta be able to get up right away."

"Don't feel bad," Window Guy says. "I get so airsick it's not even funny. Sitting by the window makes it a little better, but I usually throw up at least once anyway."

That's about the time the guy in front of me leans his seat back all the way and turns on his headphones. His music is loud enough for me to make out the lyrics, and he's listening alternately to rap music and a collection of Tiny Tim's greatest hits. My hip starts hurting. The flight attendant stops by and asks if I'd like something to drink. "Oh, yeah."

I wonder what I'd do if she asked me if I wanted some exercise equipment instead of a stiff drink.

"Excuse me?"

"Would you like something to work out with?"

"You mean like dumbbells, or something?"

"Well, let's see what I've got in here. I have a medicine ball, some of those springy-stretchy things, a small rowing machine and a sit-down stair-stepper. Gern will also be leading the passengers in some chairobics later on, if you're looking for something cardio to do."

"Where's the person with the scotch and soda? I just want something simple I can do with the 11 square inches of space you've allotted me."

It's bad enough when the person next to you can't settle on one uncomfortable position for the duration of the flight. Now he's going to be squeezing and stretching things all over your space, and working up a sweat, too. I sat next to a sweaty person on a flight to New York one time. I don't recommend it.

Another thing that bothers me about the in-flight workout plan is that it affords just one more opportunity for high-altitude snobbery. First you have to walk through the first-class section on the way to your slip in steerage. They let the first-class people board first, just so they can avert their eyes as the rest of us plow our way into the high-density section. They've already got drinks with umbrellas in them. Once you're in your seat, the techno-snobs go to work. There's the guy across the way with the portable DVD player, the guy next to you with the virtual reality goggles and a collection of laptops that each cost more than my car. I've got a newspaper, a carry-on bag that's basically an old backpack reinforced with duct tape, and a pad and pen. I feel small.

Now I'm going to have to sit next to some jock, squeezing and stretching his way into a sweaty mess and sneering at me for breaking out a pack of Pop-Tarts to have with my scotch. He'll have a neat little bag of carrots and some spring water.

"That stuff's really bad for you," he'll say.

"Yeah. Hey, you gonna eat those peanuts?"

Frank Ameduri thinks in-flight exercise is for the birds.