I hate to fly. By hate, I mean I loathe it with a fiery passion even greater than my aversion towards fire-breathing, lip-pierced circus freaks and Brussels sprouts. As soon as a flight is booked with my name on it, I break out in a cold sweat, and until I have arrived safely back home and out of harm’s way I can’t sleep for more than three hours straight.
Now, it’s not me that you should feel sorry for, but my husband. He’s the one who has to put up with me and hold my hand, all the while pretending he doesn’t know me. My flight plan ritual goes like this:
Upon boarding the plane, I have to touch the outside of the plane three times and then try to remember not to use any hand sanitizer. Once my carry-on is stowed and I am safely buckled, I then attempt to keep my mind off our imminent departure by coming to terms with what could be my premature death. Is the will restructured yet? Are the college funds secure? Did I forget to toss the outdated milk in the fridge?
My husband tries to distract me as we taxi, but this only adds to my heightened anxiety.
“So, whatcha reading,” he’ll ask, rummaging through the seat flap in front of me.
“SHHHHH,” I’ll whisper at him, slapping his hand. “Thanks to your big mouth, now I don’t know where the blow up life jacket is hidden.”
“I’m sure it’s like every other plane you’ve ever been on. It’s under the seat.”
“Really, Captain Sulley” I’ll say, frantically flipping through the air safety pamphlet I will have pulled out ahead of time to ascertain its exact location. “How do you know? All aircraft are different. What kind are we flying on anyway?”
“I don’t know an MD-80?’ he’ll shrug.
“No! It can’t be. Didn’t one of those catch on fire after takeoff from Singapore last week?” “Calm down, that’s good news.” He’ll pat my knee.
“Good news?” I’ll screech back. “How could it be good news?”
“What are the odds it would happen twice in one week? Plus...” he’ll continue, “Even if it does, I don’t think an inflatable yellow life jacket will do you much good if the fuselage catches fire mid-air anyway. You know?”
This is where I squeeze his hand even harder with my fingernails. Somehow though, even at the expense of our marriage vows to do no bodily harm, his distractions always work. I’ll find myself safely airborne.
But as soon as the bell dings and the captain informs us that it’s safe to move about the cabin, he’ll pry my claw-like hand from his, shaking it furiously in his attempts to regain circulation. Then he’ll order a bourbon before pretending to fall asleep. This means for the rest of the flight I’m flying solo, so I stay busy pretending to look over the Sky Mall catalogue, all the while keeping one eye on the cockpit looking for smoke and the other eye on the flight attendants, searching their faces for any signs of distress.
This usually drags on for what seems like hours as I lose all feeling in my feet. So as soon as I feel the ten-ton heap of metal that is the only thing keeping me from free-falling 30, 000 feet start to descend, I down my husband’s bourbon, grab his hand, tighten my seat belt, and prepare to start the process all over again.
And that’s just the first 40-minute flight from Brunswick to Atlanta.
But just because I am a freaky flyer doesn’t mean I am not a frequent one. See, it is one of the great paradoxes of my life: I am crazy passionate about experiencing different cultures and seeing different places; it’s just that I think I’m going to die either going or getting back. Thankfully, in the end, my fear of flying never wins, my love for travel prevails, and my husband still puts up with me, or least still lets me sit by him on the plane.
This last trip was no different. I made my peace, bucked up, and boarded a plane to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary in Mexico. Now, I know what you are thinking: How can I be scared of flying but not even hesitate to vacation in a country where you very well could be shot or kidnapped by a drug cartel or a corrupt AK47 carrying cop?
I just can’t help it. I love Mexico. I even spent several years as a kid living in El Paso, a Texas border town. Its people are like its climate and its beaches, warm and nurturing. Plus, on this trip we went to the Riviera Maya on the Yucatan, so we were safe sunning off the Caribbean Sea.
Granted, today, El Paso is a very different place. There would be no trips into Juarez for the day if we lived there now. This was made even clearer when we meet a really cool, young Mexican couple that was honeymooning at the same resort.
It was another great case of opposites; two couples from different countries, one celebrating fifteen years of marriage and one that was celebrating fifteen days. Octavio went to high school in Detroit where his father had been transferred with an American company. He chose to go back home to Mexico to go to college in the end. Good thing too, he would tell you, because it was there that he met his bride, Christina. They live in the north part of the country, about two hours from Brownsville, Texas. They can’t go out to get a gallon of milk or gas up the car after dark. Even if you could afford a BMW, you’d never drive one. You cannot let anyone think you have any kind of wealth. They told us they sometimes fall asleep to the sounds of gunfire. But, being the optimists they are, the silver lining in the dark cloud is that you get to spend more time inside as a family. Was it worth it in the end, you might be want to ask Octavio? To go back to a country that many people want to flee? If you see the way he looks at Christina, the answer would be a resounding “yes.”
I don’t know . . . maybe love can be a dangerous thing. It makes you get on airplanes and put your heart out there even though it could get hurt. It will send you back to a perilous country that you love because maybe, just maybe, one day you can help change it. I guess love really does make everything worth it in the end. For that, we shouldn’t fear it, but embrace it with all we’ve got.
Now, it’s not me that you should feel sorry for, but my husband. He’s the one who has to put up with me and hold my hand, all the while pretending he doesn’t know me. My flight plan ritual goes like this:
Upon boarding the plane, I have to touch the outside of the plane three times and then try to remember not to use any hand sanitizer. Once my carry-on is stowed and I am safely buckled, I then attempt to keep my mind off our imminent departure by coming to terms with what could be my premature death. Is the will restructured yet? Are the college funds secure? Did I forget to toss the outdated milk in the fridge?
My husband tries to distract me as we taxi, but this only adds to my heightened anxiety.
“So, whatcha reading,” he’ll ask, rummaging through the seat flap in front of me.
“SHHHHH,” I’ll whisper at him, slapping his hand. “Thanks to your big mouth, now I don’t know where the blow up life jacket is hidden.”
“I’m sure it’s like every other plane you’ve ever been on. It’s under the seat.”
“Really, Captain Sulley” I’ll say, frantically flipping through the air safety pamphlet I will have pulled out ahead of time to ascertain its exact location. “How do you know? All aircraft are different. What kind are we flying on anyway?”
“I don’t know an MD-80?’ he’ll shrug.
“No! It can’t be. Didn’t one of those catch on fire after takeoff from Singapore last week?” “Calm down, that’s good news.” He’ll pat my knee.
“Good news?” I’ll screech back. “How could it be good news?”
“What are the odds it would happen twice in one week? Plus...” he’ll continue, “Even if it does, I don’t think an inflatable yellow life jacket will do you much good if the fuselage catches fire mid-air anyway. You know?”
This is where I squeeze his hand even harder with my fingernails. Somehow though, even at the expense of our marriage vows to do no bodily harm, his distractions always work. I’ll find myself safely airborne.
But as soon as the bell dings and the captain informs us that it’s safe to move about the cabin, he’ll pry my claw-like hand from his, shaking it furiously in his attempts to regain circulation. Then he’ll order a bourbon before pretending to fall asleep. This means for the rest of the flight I’m flying solo, so I stay busy pretending to look over the Sky Mall catalogue, all the while keeping one eye on the cockpit looking for smoke and the other eye on the flight attendants, searching their faces for any signs of distress.
This usually drags on for what seems like hours as I lose all feeling in my feet. So as soon as I feel the ten-ton heap of metal that is the only thing keeping me from free-falling 30, 000 feet start to descend, I down my husband’s bourbon, grab his hand, tighten my seat belt, and prepare to start the process all over again.
And that’s just the first 40-minute flight from Brunswick to Atlanta.
But just because I am a freaky flyer doesn’t mean I am not a frequent one. See, it is one of the great paradoxes of my life: I am crazy passionate about experiencing different cultures and seeing different places; it’s just that I think I’m going to die either going or getting back. Thankfully, in the end, my fear of flying never wins, my love for travel prevails, and my husband still puts up with me, or least still lets me sit by him on the plane.
This last trip was no different. I made my peace, bucked up, and boarded a plane to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary in Mexico. Now, I know what you are thinking: How can I be scared of flying but not even hesitate to vacation in a country where you very well could be shot or kidnapped by a drug cartel or a corrupt AK47 carrying cop?
I just can’t help it. I love Mexico. I even spent several years as a kid living in El Paso, a Texas border town. Its people are like its climate and its beaches, warm and nurturing. Plus, on this trip we went to the Riviera Maya on the Yucatan, so we were safe sunning off the Caribbean Sea.
Granted, today, El Paso is a very different place. There would be no trips into Juarez for the day if we lived there now. This was made even clearer when we meet a really cool, young Mexican couple that was honeymooning at the same resort.
It was another great case of opposites; two couples from different countries, one celebrating fifteen years of marriage and one that was celebrating fifteen days. Octavio went to high school in Detroit where his father had been transferred with an American company. He chose to go back home to Mexico to go to college in the end. Good thing too, he would tell you, because it was there that he met his bride, Christina. They live in the north part of the country, about two hours from Brownsville, Texas. They can’t go out to get a gallon of milk or gas up the car after dark. Even if you could afford a BMW, you’d never drive one. You cannot let anyone think you have any kind of wealth. They told us they sometimes fall asleep to the sounds of gunfire. But, being the optimists they are, the silver lining in the dark cloud is that you get to spend more time inside as a family. Was it worth it in the end, you might be want to ask Octavio? To go back to a country that many people want to flee? If you see the way he looks at Christina, the answer would be a resounding “yes.”
I don’t know . . . maybe love can be a dangerous thing. It makes you get on airplanes and put your heart out there even though it could get hurt. It will send you back to a perilous country that you love because maybe, just maybe, one day you can help change it. I guess love really does make everything worth it in the end. For that, we shouldn’t fear it, but embrace it with all we’ve got.
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