Here's the thing about the Kevin Smith Southwest Airlines incident: Instead of complaining about his treatment he should be thanking those flight attendants and that pilot for a moment of honesty that he was probably sorely in need of.
I've never been as big as Smith, but relatively speaking anyway, I wasn't too far off when I tipped the scales at 123 at the tender age of ten years old. Only my wake-up call didn't come from a flight attendant but from a little girl who couldn't have been more than five years old. I was in the middle of a soccer game, intently playing my position (goalie -- what else?) and minding my own business when she walked around the goal post, looked me squarely in the eyes and blurted out, "You're fat!"
I know, I know, psychiatrists are going to say I was traumatized by the incident, but I don't think so. I think it was a gift. A gift of honesty. The kind of gift that big-time directors too often surrounded by sycophants don't often receive.
My five-year old friend was absolutely right. I was fat. And her innocent comment spurred me on to do something about my situation. And if Kevin Smith were smart, instead of twittering insults about Southwest Airlines, he would instead thank those flight attendants for their honesty and use the incident as a chance to improve his health and the comfort of those in the seats next to him on his next flight.
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