The Unfriendly Skies

If it were an equally viable option for me to arrive at a destination by crawling through broken glass and used baby diapers, I would opt for that instead of ever setting foot on an airplane. My feelings toward flying have transcended discomfort, and landed squarely around an emotion I typically reserve for bananas and genocide: it's an exquisite hatred.

Not that it's an altogether pleasant experience for anyone, having to wait in line, shoeless, like some sort of sock-wearing imbecile. Inevitably finding yourself standing behind someone who has apparently time traveled to the present, and has no idea about the TSA's expectations (albeit ridiculous) of today's modern passenger. I constantly consider yelling, "Terrorist!! Look at all those liquids and gels! They're not even in the quart-sized bag! She's probably gonna turn her kids into crotch bombs! Why are you even taking a plane if you're a time traveler?!" just to get them out of my way.

Out of all of the things that make flying an excruciating ordeal, it's really just about two things for me. First, I have a relatively significant fear of heights. It's not unusual, and actually, when you think about it, might even be pragmatic. Somewhere in that primordial, good old-fashioned caveman part of our brains, a mechanism evolved telling the conscious mind it's scary to be up high, inhibiting us from chasing our two-to-four-legged dinner off a cliff, ensuring we stay alive long enough to have baby cavemen and propagate the species. It's science, and you're welcome.

Secondly, I have an extreme aversion to confined spaces. Innately, right down to the core of my being, I grapple with this. Possibly another residual caveman brain function, though it's perhaps not as logically sound because of, like, caves and all.

To be specific, it's the type of confined space in which I find myself hurtling through space at 600 miles per hour, next to complete strangers who, in all likelihood, would step on my face rather than assist me in an emergency. I find this concept disheartening on a good day, and altogether calamitous on a bad one.

Being on an airplane is the only scenario in my life in which I worry about being adequately prepared for dealing with the worst case scenario. I might feel more comfortable if the little pre-flight safety blurb included: In the event of emergency, the flight attendants will move through the cabin passing out complimentary shots of Johnny Walker and parachutes. All I want is a fighting chance. I don't think it's too much to ask.

Once, drunk with the "knowledge is power" illusion, I figured the more I knew about flying and how planes operate, the more comfortable I'd be. So, I did a little reading on lift and Bernoulli and Newton and the viscosity of air. I realized with shocking abruptness that my prior Sesame Street understanding of what was going on outside my upright seat back and locked tray table was plenty of information. Plane goes fast, something happens, plane goes up....plane goes slow, something else happens, plane goes down.

The more I knew, the more I could worry about. Well, if the power needed to lift the airplane is proportional to the weight times the vertical velocity of the air...omfg, what if it's not?! What happens?! Not a particularly productive exercise for me.

But what's life without a little incapacitating fear once in a while? The second we stop feeling it is the second we stop evolving, at least according to my earlier, very scientific theory.

So, for now, I'll continue to fly, monitor my elevated pulse while sweating profusely and frantically asking the person next to me, "Is that normal?!". Eventually, as always, I'll arrive at my destination unscathed.

However, you can believe wholeheartedly that I'll be the first person in line for the grand opening of the Baby Diapers and Broken Glass Transportation Company. And I'll probably even be able to keep my shoes on.