Air travel has introduced a new indignity. I'm calling it "crotch shoulder."
I am in an aisle seat and in the overhead bin right above me are the thin sheathes of petrochemical fibers they call blankets. It's too much work for the airline to put them on seats. They're all stuffed, randomly in this particular overhead bin.
At this point in the flight, there are just a few blankets left. That means most people have to stand on their tippy-toes and reach back into the bin to fetch a blanket. Which means my shoulder is being assaulted by crotches of all shapes and genders.
All of which has led me to write this couplet.
I'll say it here with no addendum,
I do not welcome your pudendum.