“Seat 23F: The Beginning of the Back Row Chronicles”

Tomorrow, I’ll take my first work flight. I’ll wake up too early, forget something minor but important, and head to GSO with the quiet buzz of a guy who knows this is just the start of something. Maybe not something glamorous. Definitely not something luxurious. But something.

This morning, I checked in through the American Airlines app. You know the one—shiny buttons, polite notifications, and zero effort to cushion the blow when it informs you where, exactly, you’ll be sitting.

Seat 23F.
The very last seat on the Embraer 175. The caboose of the cabin. The throne behind the throne—if you consider the lavatory a throne, which I will be doing by proximity alone.

I won’t just be near the bathroom—I’ll be practically fused to it. So close, I’m pretty sure the flight attendants will start using me as a landmark: “Turn right at Nate, and you’ll find the The Rear Admiral’s Quarters.” I’ll catch every waft of soap pods and disinfectant, hear every flush like a percussive beat, and get asked “Is this the line?” more times than a DMV clerk on free donut day. Sitting in 23F means becoming an unintentional expert on humanity’s bathroom habits. By the end of the flight, I’ll have formed detailed opinions on strangers’ digestive health. I’ll have front-row seats to the endless shuffle of crossed legs, polite dance steps around an invisible line, and the occasional impatient door jiggle. Every third person will hover with that desperate, polite panic, calculating how much longer they can hold out. There’s an odd kind of intimacy here—one you don’t ask for but can’t escape. You learn who flushes like they’re trying to win a contest, who sings their own soundtrack, and who thinks it’s totally normal to deliver a five-minute monologue to their toddler in a 3x3 metal box at 35,000 feet. This isn’t just a seat; it’s a cramped, noisy social experiment. And there I’ll be—wedged in tight, knees pressed against the seat in front, sipping lukewarm ginger ale, and doing my best to ignore the rhythmic hum of a electric toothbrush echoing off the potty walls.

And this seat doesn’t recline. Of course it doesn’t. Why would it? Comfort is reserved for people who chose careers in something respectable like hedge funds or pharmaceutical sales. Me? I chose a different path. A path with Bondo dust, insurance paperwork, and travel that starts in double-digit boarding groups.

I’ll be in Group 8. Otherwise known as “Wait here, sir. We’ll let you know when the important people are settled.” The people with status. The people with upgrades. The people who don’t need to wedge their bag under the seat because there’s still overhead space left.

But here’s the thing—I’m not bitter. Okay, maybe just a little. But mostly, I’m excited. Because this isn’t about this flight. It’s not about this seat. It’s not even about being so close to the crapper that I could hand people mints as they exit.

It’s about what this flight represents.

This is the start. The first chapter. The moment I leave the ground and begin the version of my career that involves boarding passes, hotel keys, and eventually—if I play my miles right—priority boarding.

I may not be a Platinum Pro, an Executive Whatever, or even a guy without a real suitcase until 2 days ago(shoutout to the Turquoise Traveler, though—clearance rack champion and  future road trip veteran). But I’ve got a destination, a laptop, and a corporate card. That’s something.

Tomorrow, I’ll climb aboard from the very back of the line, walk all the way down the narrow aisle, and take my rightful place in Seat 23F, directly adjacent to the jet’s digestive system. I’ll smile, put on my noise-canceling headphones (cheap, but they do the trick), and tell myself what I already know:

Every story has to start somewhere.
And mine?
It starts right by the bathroom.