The Scene In Which I Do Not Want To Fly

I have to get on a plane, and it's freaking me out.

Before you ask, no, it's not for Thanksgiving (tomorrow). It's not even for Christmas (a month away).

It's in MARCH.

More specifically, at the END OF MARCH.

But in my family there's something to being prepared, and kids, let me tell you, I am prepared to be completely f-ing freaked out, especially since I am already f-ing freaked out.

I haven't always been this way.

There was a time, and not all that long ago, when the idea of flying didn't freak me out. Airline travel was something interesting, even fun.

Then I moved to Indiana and my allergies got bad, which made my ears react sort of the way a five-year-olds might and develop weird vertigo-ish tendencies during take offs and landings.

Sort of making me feel like the plane was crashing at any given second during both events.

Super.

Then I was in a couple flights in a row where there was really bad turbulence. Also not helpful.

I'm pretty sure that my solo flight home from San Diego following an AFP conference two years ago was the actual first panic attack. Descending into Denver during a thunderstorm? Not cool. Still owe huge gratitude to the grandfatherly gent who talked me down (literally: he talked to me during the entire 20-minute descent into Denver).


Followed closely by my horrendous, weather-delayed, turbulent voyage to Omaha during which the on-leave, 19-year-old cute little Marine had to distract me (read: poor freaked out old chick) during the entire turbulent flight with stories about how he was injured by an IED. Seriously.

And then this happened.

(From a Scene in 2009 describing our flight home from Paris): "during which we encountered the type of turbulence that makes the pilots yell for the flight attendants to sit, the aforementioned attendants to squinch their eyes closed, and for half of the passengers to actually scream as we nose-dive several hundred feet in, oh, about two seconds."

Oh yes, that's right. I was ON A PLANE THAT FELL OUT OF THE SKY.

So it shouldn't come as a total surprise that I'm not that excited about getting into a TIN CAN and being LAUNCHED THOUSANDS OF FEET INTO THE AIR in the hands of WHOEVER THE DUMBASS AT THE HELM IS and being at the total mercy of the elements.

NO THANKS.

Since the lovely flight to Paris I've only gotten on a plane once, to head to Florida. I seriously didn't know how I was going to go through with it. Thankfully, Cute Boy and xanax came to the rescue.

But I'd like to avoid this in the future, particularly as "taking xanax" for the purpose of air travel might aaaaaaaactually mean "taking one xanax the day before, taking one xanax the day of, having a couple glasses of wine before the flight takes off, staggering out of the airport three hours later, and puking out the side of the car on the way home."

Theoretically.

I need a solution, kids. And I need one now. So I don't have to spend the next four months freaking out.