Dear man in the middle seat,
I’m judging by the grey in your hair that you are at least a few years older than me. Which at the very least, means you’re older than five. I shouldn’t have to remind a gentleman in your stage of life that it is gross to pick your nose. And really, really uncouth to continue to pick your nose for most of the hour flight to Houston.
I’m sure you thought you were being stealthy, and maybe the flight attendant didn’t notice, but I, in the seat next to the nose picking hand, noticed each and every drill. I mean really, if there were that much in your nose, don’t you think a tissue would have been a little more beneficial?
Thank gawd for the man on the other side of you. He obviously didn’t notice the continual booger boring, for he engaged you in enough conversation for you to finally stop with the endless probing. Although, I did have to cringe when you shook his hand while exiting the plane. I’m sorry, nice man in the aisle seat. Way to take one for the team.
And people wonder why I stick my head in a book and make no eye contact when I fly.
Woman in the window seat