Buckle It or White-Knuckle It

I've been doing a lot of traveling over the last two months due to my new job. This story is going to get kind of crazy, so buckle up - it's going to be a wild ride. Keep your arms and legs safely inside this blog until you've finished reading.

I must say I'm a big fan of seatbelts. I never needed to be sold on the idea by some crash test dummies. They save lives, but for me, maybe it's because I have an easier time finding seatbelts that fit me than regular belts to hold my pants up. Maybe I just need to give up on clothing stores and start buying belts for my wardrobe at an auto parts store or junkyard.

Friend: "Where did you get that wicked belt?"

Me: "I got it out of a 1994 Ford Taurus from Mack's Auto Salvage. I actually have 4 different colors of this belt at home - pawnee tan, nimbus gray, portofino blue and medium seafoam!"

Anything that can keep my massive ass strapped in a seat in the event of a crash is just a modern marvel, really. I've always considered myself safe traveling thanks to seatbelts.

Except twice.

The first time wasn't even while traveling by normal means. It was at an amusement park.

Being a bigger dude, I usually avoid rides that look like they'd be too small to stuff my big butt in, or rides that look unsafe for a man half my size to ride. That being said, I must have been temporarily insane in February 2002.

That's when my wife (AKA The Rockette) and I met up with our great friends JudiBootie and her husband at Universal Studios in Orlando. The idea was to go on some rides, eat at some restaurants, have loads of fun and start swinging (Ha! Got you on the last one, didn't I?! Sorry, I'm a tease). We accomplished three of the four things previously mentioned, but on the last day of our two-day tour, a warning flag was waved.

The Rockette wanted to go on the Incredible Hulk roller coaster. I was game, but next to the sign that says "You must be this tall to ride" there were some seat examples that basically meant "If you can't fit your fat ass in these, don't get in line."

Well, I tried the seats, and it felt like I was trying to cram into a kid's booster seat at Perkins. There was no way my ass was going to squeeze into the slot, let alone wrap a seatbelt around the whole package. So The Rockette went on the ride with JudiBootie's husband while I bitched to JudiBootie how I "couldn't believe there wasn't a spot for a 300-pound plus dude on a roller coaster named after the Incredible Hulk." I exploded out of my shirts and pants on a daily basis, and I belonged on that ride dammit. But some coaster designer didn't want any real-life Hulks aboard this train.

Someone decided I needed to be consoled by going on the Doctor Doom Fear Fall ride. JudiBootie's husband told me the ride was basically backwards bungee jumping, where instead of falling down, you get shot up into the air. Then you got the added pleasure of plummeting back to earth. Oh, joy!

As we were waiting our turn to defy death, I wondered why the hell I was even standing in line. I have a fear of heights. So getting on a ride that basically catapults you straight up into the air, then lets you freefall back to Earth was already a heart attack waiting to happen. Then add a silly little thing like my seatbelt not staying clasped and, Houston, we have a huge fucking problem. But on the other hand, I was having so much fun with The Rockette, JudiBootie and her hubby I decided to stick it out and face my fear.

Now it was our turn, so I got in the seat and clasped my seatbelt. It was a tad tight, but seemed to do the trick. But just before the Carnie was doing his final safety check, my seatbelt popped open with a loud "ping" noise. I hadn't even moved, it just flew off for no reason other than failing to harness my huge ass in the seat.

I switched seats with JudiBootie's hubby, thinking the seatbelt was the problem. I grabbed the belt and buckled it. All systems were just about go again until that familiar "ping" noise. The damn belt busted loose again. The countdown was delayed so I could rebuckle, but the "ping" soon followed.

I started thinking it was time to abort the mission since I couldn't keep my seatbelt on. But this time, instead of stopping the countdown, the Carnie just said "Awwww, don't worry about it. That's just a secondary safety feature anyway." Then that 3-toothed bastard flipped the switch and sent my huge ass hurtling into space with my three fellow astronauts.

The only thing holding me into the seat was a metal bar that seemed about as sturdy as an old bicycle frame. I clutched onto that metal so hard that if they ever make a CSI:Orlando, I'm pretty sure they'd be able to find my fingerprints embedded in it. When we reached the highest point, I enjoyed the view of sunny Orlando for a split second. Then I heard a "ping" again, which was my seat belt slapping against the seat frame, a wonderful reminder that I wasn't buckled up. I closed my eyes and began to pray that I wouldn't hear a much louder ping of the primary safety feature giving way.

My prayers were answered and I reached the ground safely. But The Rockette and JudiBootie had to pry my fingers off of that frame. At that point, I had a new appreciation for seatbelts. I never wanted to go on a deathride like that again. To top it all off, the Doom Gift Shop sold hats and T shirts, but not new pairs of underwear for those of us who had just shit our pants.

Fast forward to last week, when I'm boarding a flight from Chicago's O'Hare to Minneapolis-St. Paul. I'm a big guy, but "luckily" my hugeness spills forward and not over the sides of my seat. That means my only challenge is to get the seatbelt clicked.

Most airline seatbelts fit me no problem. United's are by far the most roomy. Northwest, Delta and Southwest aren't bad either. I've had a few close calls with some of their seatbelts, but I'm usually always able to get them fastened by sucking in my gut, taking a deep breath or just pulling and praying until I hear the "click." Let me tell you, a "click" gives me a much safer feeling than a "ping" any day.

But on this American flight, my seatbelt was so small I couldn't even get the two sides closer than 6 inches apart. This mind boggled me because the dude across the aisle from me had to be 400 pounds plus and he had slack in his belt.

The flight attendant walked by and I said "excuse me, I'm having a hell of a time with this belt..."

She said, "OK, honey, I'll be right back."

The flight attendant did seem pretty busy. After all, it was a hectic time. She had to close the rest of the overhead bins, check luggage, do the safety schpeel, listen to 20 other requests, and get the beverages and snacks ready for after we're airborne. I didn't see her for a while, but knew she wouldn't leave me hanging like old Triple Tooth did in Orlando.

The next thing I knew, the plane was backing up and I still wasn't buckled in. The flight attendant zipped by chucking things to her left and right while chanting "sorry for the wait, honey," trying to fulfill all earlier requests as she dashed up the aisle to take her seat. As she blew by me, she handed me a pillow the size of a bag of marshmallows.

I tried to stop her and tell her I didn't think a tiny pillow was going to fix my issue. I needed a seatbelt extender or a rope. The least she could have done was shrink wrap me in the seat. But she just hauled ass to her place up front so, God forbid, she wasn't taking off without her seatbelt on.

At this point, I was yearning to stay on the ground, where ad slogans for seatbelt use preached "Click it or ticket." Maybe this airline's policy was "Ticket. Can't click it? Fuck it!"

It was too late now. I was going to have to rough it out. Standing up at this point and announcing there was a problem probably would have gotten me shot by an air marshall, who thought I was some deranged prick with explosive shoes. So I just hugged my pillow and awaited certain Doom.

As the plane roared down the runway, I had flashbacks to the Doctor Doom ride. Only this time there was no metal frame to hold on to. I couldn't grip the food tray because it had to be stowed in its upright position. I moved the pillow to my lap, hoping it would cushion my balls if we hit a pocket of turbulence that would send me flying into orbit.

A little over an hour later, it was over. Granted, I had almost lost my mind on that flight like William Shatner on that Twilight Zone episode "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet." But, like the Doom ride, I ended up safely on the ground after all despite that dangling seatbelt. I was, however, still as white as a sheet when The Rockette arrived in the airport's passenger pick-up area.

Rockette: "How was the flight?"

Me: "Let's put it this way... After the plane landed, I was so happy to be on the ground safe and sound that I didn't just want to kiss the ground. I almost fucked it."