Flying from Chicago to Seattle, I was tired and managing a blood sugar dip (I have Type 1 diabetes).
I pulled out a protein bar – the mom next to me hissed, “Don’t. Our son is very sensitive.”
The kid wasn’t disabled, just spoiled and loud.
I figured I’d wait for the snack cart.
But when I tried to order, the dad cut in: “NO FOOD OR DRINKS FOR THIS ROW.” I hit the call button.
He scoffed, “Maybe skip the snack and be decent for once, yeah?” The mom added, “SHE’LL HAVE NOTHING, THANKS.” I was already LIVID.
So I turned to the flight attendant and said -loudly enough for half the plane I said, ‘I’m a Type 1 diabetic. If I don’t eat, I could pass out — or worse. Are you going to explain that to the paramedics when we make an emergency landing?’”
The mom’s smug smile faltered. The dad opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The flight attendant blinked, then nodded sharply. “Ma’am, would you like juice with your snack?”
“Yes, please,” I said calmly, unwrapping my protein bar right then and there.
The attendant leaned in toward the parents. “Federal regulations require that passengers with medical needs be accommodated. Interfering is a serious offense.”
The mom flushed deep red. The dad suddenly became very interested in the seatback in front of him.
And the kicker?
A man two rows up turned and said, “Eat up, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”
Another voice added, “Next time, they can book a private jet if snacks offend them.”
I chewed slowly. Happily.
Blood sugar rising.
So was my mood.
And as the snack cart rolled on, so did my quiet revenge — one bite at a time.