On a flight home with my husband, Tom, a rude woman kept her feet on his seat, brushing off our requests to stop. I cooked up a sly plan that got her attention and still brings a grin to my face. After visiting Tom’s family, we were ready for home. “I’m craving our bed,” I said, buckling in. Tom smiled. “Our shower’s water pressure is gold.” The plane’s soft hum promised a peaceful trip, but that changed fast. The woman behind us had her bare feet on Tom’s seat, kicking it as she laughed with her friend, completely unaware of her rudeness.
I nudged Tom, hoping he’d speak up. He’s laid-back, but this bugged him. “Excuse me, could you take your feet off?” he asked, turning around. She giggled, whispered to her friend, and ignored him. During the safety talk, she sat right, but soon her feet were back, jostling Tom’s seat. “Please, it’s getting old,” he said, sharper. She rolled her eyes, chatting on. Tom’s shoulders stiffened, signaling a tough flight ahead. “Find a flight attendant,” I said, keeping my cool. I’m known for petty moves, and Tom knew I was itching to make one.
He returned with a firm flight attendant who spoke to the woman. She lowered her feet, but the second the attendant left, they were back. I was done. When the drink cart came, I saw my moment. “I’ll take a juice,” Tom said. “Water for me,” I said, opening the bottle with a sly grin. “What’s that face?” Tom asked. “Just wait,” I said. I tipped my water, soaking her bag under Tom’s seat. She didn’t notice. Then I grabbed Tom’s juice. “Go for it,” he laughed. I poured it onto her feet. “Yuck!” she shrieked, yanking them back, nearly hitting her friend.
“Did you spill that?” she snapped, glaring. I turned, all apologies. “Oops, sorry! Plane must’ve shook.” She muttered, whining to her friend about my “gross” act. “She poured juice on me!” she said. Her friend replied, “She could’ve just asked.” I caught them complaining about deserving comfort for their ticket price. When the meal cart rolled by, she moved, bumping Tom’s seat. “Sorry!” she said quickly. “I don’t want food on me.” Tom laughed, squeezing my hand. Her feet stayed down. She glared at me now and then, but I smiled politely.
As we descended, she found her wet bag, fuming. I gave her a subtle nod. “Shower first,” Tom said. “Bed next,” I agreed, satisfied. She stormed off the plane, grumbling. We took our time, strolling through the terminal, Tom’s arm around me. “That was you at your finest,” he said, chuckling. “A little payback teaches respect,” I replied. That small act of revenge felt perfect, showing that standing up for yourself can be sweetly satisfying.