I'm tangled in my headset and I'm in the wrong seat.

Jed has generously given me his aisle seat next to where he now sits tucked in the middle of the 3-across. He did this, perhaps, to quiet my whimpering. More likely it was love.

A few minutes before, I had seated myself confidently across the aisle from him, and made a bed of the airline blanket, pillow, the new fuzzy neck pillow I'd bought at Whole Foods, my copy of "Real Simple Magazine," my bottle of water in which I'd dissolved an ampule of Airbourne, etc. I'd even stowed my bag and stashed my purse under the seat. I'd just pulled out the cozy socks Cathay Pacific had provided and slipped them over the compression socks I wore for fear of blood clots.

I'd done all this without checking my ticket stub. When the sturdy young couple interrupted my nesting, I was terribly confused. I could not remember where I'd stuffed my boarding pass. Jed had not kept track of my seat number for me. After a long time, I found the stub and realized I'd have to vacate the only home I'd ever known on this jetliner. Oh, bother! I was already wearing the socks that should go to the real occupant of D 35. I'd ripped open the sealed plastic bag with his earphones. Fondled his tiny toothpaste. Lost his toothbrush in the underbrush of my unpacking. Worse, my real seat was an innie. That meant I'd have to climb over Jed every time I visited the restroom.

I began to haul myself across the aisle. The woman on Jed's otherside was looking at me with alarm -- my arms filled with the detritus of only seven or eight minutes on the plane. That's when Jed suggested I take the aisle seat instead of him. I didn't even have to ask. Plus, I knew how difficult it would be for him to bind his knees to his body for the 15 hour and 30 minute flight, to wedge into our economy class seating. Yet, he said, "Here, you take the aisle."

Who wouldn't love this man? I do.