I was on a flight recently, and aside from having to arrive at the airport 3 hours before, divvy up all our liquids into 100mL portions, and partially disrobe in front of a strangely unappreciative metal-detector queue (everyone’s a critic), the flight was fine. The atmosphere wasn’t as close and cattle-car in character as some other budget airlines we’ve been on.

Through the boarding scrum, bypassing the slow-moving people who don’t know or don’t care that they’re destined for middle seats within stench-radius of the toilets, we always make for the middle of the small 3-3 planes, looking out for emergency-exit seats for the (often only perceived) extra legroom. We usually find these seats already occupied and jealously guarded by lanky single men, so we often end up a few rows behind. This is usually a pretty nondescript area to sit in, with neither first choice from the drinks trolley nor the right to gripe because there’s nothing but lukewarm tomato juice left. Most of all, since you’re equidistant to both lavs, you should never get hip-checked mid-nap by some incontinent passenger, since in theory they should always be headed away from you.

This time, though, the middle of the plane was exactly where the exercisers wanted to be. You know the ones: typically overweight, sweaty package-tourists who’ve read somewhere that long flights = potential for sudden brain death. Boo to blood clots, I say—but usually I’m already so self-conscious about appearing in front of audiences that I’ll limit myself to a quick scamper to the lav, weaving through the Weekend-at-Bernie’s-style obstacle course.

And so cruising altitude meant a succession of airborne wobbly-kneed lunging-enthusiasts. Truly, in any other context, no one would ever put their bum so close to a stranger’s face without some deeply suppressed childhood trauma to back it up. And don’t think this was solely a floor show: the interactive portion involved executing weird, standing push-ups off of my chair back, the springiness of which nearly pitched me into the warm perspiratory enfoldings of those generous posteriors. Resigned, I buckled in and clung desperately to my armrests; I didn’t need the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign to tell me it was going to be a long and turbulent flight.