Fly Away

I don't like flying.

I'm not afraid of it, exactly. I know my odds of dying in the air are pretty slim, and a morbid sliver of me thinks a crash would be exciting. You know, until you hit ground.

But it just makes me nervous. Forget the fact that I've traveled on my own countless times, many of them international flights. Flying turns me into a helpless eleven year old, totally sure that I'm fucking something up. I have a longstanding fear that I'm somehow going to get on the wrong plane. Or I won't be able to find my gate. Or I'll miss my flight because I'm getting drunk in the bar. (That only almost happened once, okay?) (Do eleven year olds drink nowadays?) (This is not the point.)

I get claustrophobic too. Maybe I shouldn't use that word, because I'm sure my problems lie outside the textbook definition of that phobia, but being on a plane makes all my muscles cramp, my throat tightens up, I feel trapped by all the people around me. I don't really like people, that's probably part of the problem.

I hate having to get up to use the bathroom. I hate having to get up to let OTHER people use the bathroom, and I always choose an aisle seat. I hate that my food choices are so restricted and dependent on lines. Last week I ended up having Cheetos, beef jerky, and chocolate coconut water for breakfast. It was delicious, but not exactly on my diet. I hate the fact that I will always eat every bite of my airplane food even though it's so ick. I hate the line of people waiting to get on and off the plane---sardines. Stupid, selfish sardines.

I have my books. I have my music. I know the thirteenish hours in the air will pass, and I'll get off the plane and onto my shuttle and will be home to my kitty cuddles within 24 hours...but still.

Tay no likey.

Sigh. See you on the other side.