I'm on the first leg of my flights home, and about a third of the way through the flight attendants' mandatory safety review, it dawns of me that as many times as I have flown, I don't know what she has said. I'm not sure where that emergency flotation device is.
The only two parts I am sure about are "keeping in mind that the closest exit may be behind you" and "the oxygen mask does not need to fully inflate to be operational", neither I really care to have to rely on. And, once again, I've missed the safety review. Certainly my subconscious has picked up some of it after hearing it thirty or forty times this year alone.
I turn and survey the passengers around me. Who can I quickly get ahead of "in the unlikely event of a water landing" (and if Captain Sully is not at the helm)? After all, this is not a time to be polite and gracious. "Excuse me, but would you mind if I move ahead of you, it's matter of life and death [literally]." Those kind folks are going to go down with the ship. Of course, wonderful words will be said about them at their memorial services.
I know I can beat the full figured lady across the aisle - it took her a while to get wedged into her seat earlier. The executive in the row in front of me will most likely hesitate, deciding whether or not he needs to remove his $1100 Berluti shoes. His seat mate is a no brainer, he will most likely sleep through any calamity.
Now, that I have a plan I can go back to reading my magazine. Just then I hear, " . . . of course we'll keep you apprised of the situation as we get more details." I turn to my seat mate - certainly he was paying attention, only to find him snoring quietly. Perhaps, I really should pay more attention to the flight attendants. After all, I'm not sure my personal affairs are in order, I still have 937 places to visit out of the 1000 I should see before die, and I don't think I have on new underwear.