On our most recent flight, Hubby and I flew Southwest, which means you don’t have assigned seating. The airline assigns you a place in line, then once on board the plane, you get to choose from any available seat.

“Try to get the exit row,” Hubby said.

On Southwest, the exit row doesn’t offer more legroom for middle and aisle passengers, but there is no seat in front of the window seat, which meant Hubby could rest his legs next to the middle row passenger in front of me. I recommended that he leave his shoes on, out of consideration for the person in front of me who would have to endure his feet for the journey.

Surprisingly, we managed to snag an exit row. There’s a moment right after you settle into an exit row seat on an airplane when you feel like someone important. Not first class, important, mind you, but knowing that if something goes wrong with this highly pressurized metal tube hurtling through the sky at 500 miles per hour, the fate of the planet (or maybe just the plane) depends on Hubby and me. With great leg-stretching power comes great responsibility.

The flight attendant stopped at our row and gave us “the look.” You know the one. It’s somewhere between “Are you intellectually capable of exit row responsibility?” and “You don’t look like you’d follow directions during turbulence.”

Then came “The Question.”

“Are you willing and able to assist in the event of an emergency?”

I’m suddenly rethinking the immensity of the responsibility I have just volunteered for. But for the sake of Hubby’s comfort, I nodded solemnly.

“I need a verbal consent,” said the flight attendant.

Hubby and I mumbled “Yes,” so I could get back to playing my word game on my phone.

But she wasn’t finished. She insisted we read the emergency evacuation card conveniently located in the seatback pocket. Hubby dutifully studied the laminated instructions as if he were preparing for a final exam in survival school. I guess, technically, he was. I figured since he was enjoying the extra leg room next to the emergency exit door, I didn’t really have to do anything except crawl over him to get out. I went back to my word game.

So, there we were—official volunteers for opening the exit door in a crisis, despite the fact that I can’t open the lid on a jar of jelly. If there were an emergency, it would be Hubby’s job to pull the lever. My job would be to shout, “Are you sure that’s the way you’re supposed to do it?” That’s teamwork.

Throughout the flight, I kept mentally rehearsing how I would spring into action if needed.

1. Unbuckle my seat belt.
2. Yell at Hubby to open the door.
3. Don’t scream.
4. Don’t trip over Hubby.

To be perfectly honest, the thought of assisting other passengers to safety only fleetingly crossed my mind. I figured if Hubby managed to open the door, I was out of there, and it was every man, woman, or child for himself. Plus, despite admonitions to leave all belongings behind, I was grabbing my purse on the way out. No way am I making a trek to the DMV to replace my driver’s license before I absolutely have to. Yeah, I know I agreed to assume responsibility for a bunch of strangers—merely so Hubby could have the convenience of extra leg room—but if the plane crashed and killed everyone on board except Hubby and me, who managed to escape, who would tattle on me for dereliction of duty?

Thankfully, the flight was uneventful. No sudden plunges, no inflatable slides, no heroic door-yanking. We landed without incident, and I walked off the plane grateful that I didn’t have to choose between honoring my commitment to save others and saving my own neck. In the end, I did what any responsible exit-row volunteer would do: absolutely nothing, and I did it exceptionally well.