The baby is the longtime dreaded seat partner on an aircraft, with the growing exception of the massively obese person who hasn’t given themselves the courtesy of purchasing the seat block that their body necessitates. However, the unfortunate overweight partner can often justify a move to another seat, on the theory that a) you cannot ride on their lap and b) their lap cannot ride on you.
There is no way around that seat assignment. I guess I sympathize with parents traveling with infants, but then again, not so much. To me it seems a bit counterintuitive to travel with a baby, or anything that can’t carry its own luggage. From what I understand, which is admittedly nothing, the primary justification for shuttling a baby across the country is to show it off to family. But, it’s a baby, why not wait until it has more defining features than a blotchy sand bag?
I know, the answer to that question is obvious: because some people like babies, as is evidenced by the fact that if you have one, all kinds of people want to touch it. If this were any other belonging, that would be considered assault. It is my practice to neither touch babies nor be touched by them, especially emphasizing the latter. Even on the off chance they do look a bit cute, I’d just as rather lick a slot machine in Vegas than come skin-to-skin with those creatures. There is a reason children are associated with germs and hand wash–that’s not just a clever marketing ploy by Dial.
I guess I may come across a bit harsh here. I happen to not like babies and although I maintain a healthy dislike of small children too, they would nevertheless be my preference. I am consistently told by people who obviously know nothing about me or by parents who haven’t caught on to the fact that I don’t want to touch their baby, that my clock is going to really start ticking here soon. And, at this point, extra fast to make up for lost time. But I don’t see it, or hear it. In any event, clocks don’t tick anymore, they flash and are capable of solving complicated math problems.
I don’t even enjoy pictures of babies, unless they are babies of the non-human and cute-pet sort. One of the major misunderstandings under which people seem to operate these days is that other people care about your family. Ha! Ridiculous. I care more about your new designer handbag, and if I’m going to show you a picture, it’s going to be of the hot guy that took me out last weekend. You’re welcome.