A few weeks ago I went to Minnesota to go to my parents' house for the week since I didn't get a chance to go home for Christmas. Of course I was glad to be able to go and spend time with my folks, but that unfortunately involved flying there and back. I get pretty nervous during air travel and being thousands of miles above the Earth, which isn’t really all that surprising -- being that I get nervous or frightened about a hell of a lot of things, both practical and nonsensical.However, the thing with flying is that I used to love it. I mean absolutely LOVED it. And I’ve flown a lot of hours in my lifetime too; my dad used to work for a prominent airline that had to declare bankruptcy, so we flew all around the world for no cost when I was a kid. I’ve flown in jumbo jets, prop planes, and float planes. I’ve flown into about every major airport, across the length of the country, and over the world’s two greatest oceans. Short flights, long flights, clear weather, lightning storms, and turbulence: I’ve done it all. I also have an early memory of going up in a hot air balloon, although that may just be a concoction of my mind.
So why the fear of flying? I honestly don't know where it comes from. From what I can tell, it seems to have started roughly six years ago. And I know what you're thinking, but I don't think it has anything directly to do with 9/11. I flew to Chicago not long after that happened and don't remember being freaked out. I think it has more to do with my mental state as I have gotten more and more anxious and prone to panic attacks over the years. Or maybe it has to do with mellowing with age, and becoming more cognizant of my own mortality.
Regardless of whatever it is though, the minute I step on board and take my seat my mind is racing and I am sweating profusely. By the time we touch down at the destination my khakis will be soaked from rubbing my wet palms on my thighs for two hours straight. Flying also makes me the most devout man on the planet. From taxiing to the runway to throughout the entire takeoff and climb, I am offering up about a thousand variants of prayers to the Almighty for safe passage. Once airborne and at cruising altitude, I start inventing a multitude of disaster scenarios. The reasons for the plane's soon-to-be-crash range from the practical (engine failure) to the impractical (the wings simply shearing off) to the political (terrorists) to the fantastical (gremlins) to even the comedic (the pilots suffering from food poisoning and the flight attendant not being versed in the proper emergency fellatio protocol).
So to distract myself from this kind of thinking I have to come up with ways to trick my mind into a lull. An engrossing book is a must. Sometimes a shot or two at the airport bar can steel the nerves, but typically just makes me edgier so I generally avoid any alcohol before and during the flight. I do math and tell myself that flight attendants do this as a job. This last time, I took my laptop for the first time and watched movies, which helped greatly. You would think sleeping would be perfect; however, this is almost always the worst strategy. Even when I sit in first class it's impossible to get comfortable enough to achieve anything other than a restless half-sleep. And the slightest bump of turbulence wrenches me out of my fever dreams to choke on my own breath. These are my coping strategies for this particularly phobia; I muster up a quiet dignity and suffer through it as best I can. And you can bet your ass that as soon as we reach the gate I'm throwing up a few hallelujahs in thanks to the Old Man.
THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN
Candidates for the future Mrs. Dunce Cap Marvel beware. I am possibly the worst domestic mind of our generation. A few days ago I did laundry for the first time at the new apartment. The new sweater I just bought at Eddie Bauer last week is now the newly shrunken sweater I just bought. I fuck up so many new clothes it's not even funny. I am also an abysmal seamster (?), a complete lackwit when it comes to ironing, and quite adept at staining shirts to only further ruin them with bleach. Someday when I am a rich and powerful blogger with a book deal all of my dirty, stained, and buttonless clothes items will go to a lucky individual who will launder and mend them for the cash that I press into his or her palm. But never fear ladies...I can cook, so submit those résumés!
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