Mile Low Club

My screams can be heard throughout my body and soul. They sound terrified, like I just hurled back the shower curtain to reveal a giant spider whose legs are so long they touch all four corners of the bathtub, and is glaring at me from all 10 eyes. They sound horrific, like the screams from a thousand monkeys being chased by a thousand wailing house cats in heat. With fiery torches. Finally, my nightmarish screams are so ghastly, my body and soul retreat to the darkest corners of my mind and curl into a fetal position, rocking and drooling against the inside of my cranium.

But you don’t hear any of this. You see my screams manifested externally as withdrawn aggravation, difficulty concentrating, and white-knuckle anxiety. I remember pre flight-anxiety life. I’d happily slop all of my belongings into a suitcase, pick out just the right magazines and novels to read on the plane, refill my ipod with the latest and greatest hits. I thought the airport was an exciting hub of energy and intoxicating chi, and I never forgot to pack anything. 

On February 19th, I spent the morning of my mother’s birthday feeling unfocused and anxious. I put off packing all morning, hoping if I didn’t pack anything I wouldn’t have to fly, which is completely opposite of my usual organized, prepared, resourceful self who would have had everything packed the week before. Around 4 hours before take off time, I began gathering the things I would need for a five day vacation starting in Baltimore, then on to DC. I packed casually, as if the plane ride wasn’t happening: my favorite outfits, jewelry, Nook, laptop, several pairs of glasses/sunglasses, contact lenses, workout clothes and my new Brazil Butt Lift exercise CD, bathing suit, and walking clothes for the Zoo and Smithsonian days. I dressed and got myself ready for the ride to the airport and flight as if it were a certainty that the plane were crashing, and I wanted some of my personality in life to come through via my burned and bloodied corpse. Sure, it’s morbid but I choose a lacy red tank top under my favorite red shirt, a comfy but cute pair of Victorias Secret jeans, my favorite black boots which have just enough of a heel to be sassy but also allow me to walk longish distances in comfort and are so scuffed the left one has a hole somewhere that allows water to osmose in from even the slightest puddle or humidity level. I adorned myself with my Pandora bracelet, owl ring, zebra print ring, and bright blue glasses with red on the rim and interior. The perfect attire to underscore the twisted, horrified expression that will overwhelm my face on the downward spiral into the ocean, mountains, field in the middle of nowhere...or wherever the plane decides to malfunction and begin to fly vertically, instead of horizontally. 

I know what you’re thinking: Duh, why do you think bars are positioned suspiciously close to departing gates?! Indulge in an alcoholic refreshment to sedate some of these unnatural fears! I tried that. 2 Bloody Mary’s later, which was about 25 minutes before take off time and the loudspeaker at Gate 19 announced there would be a minor delay due to the incoming plane being late. 30 minutes later they announced a delay of unknown length due to a “leak in one of the lavatories.” Over an hour after departure time we finally boarded the plane. I sat down, buckled up, perused a Sky Mall, made jokes with my daughter, and people watched while the others boarded. I complained about the wretchedly oversized luggage people are allowed to bring as carry-ons. I wonder if all airlines allow this, or just the one I usually travel on? Then I scoffed while other passengers got physically assaulted by said wretched people trying to wedge their kitchen sink stuffed bags into the compact overhead bins. Even though it’s completely illogical because if they checked them, the bags would still be on the same plane, but whenever they cram those bins so abnormally full, I feel like it contributes to or will cause the inevitable infernal descent. When the engine went into gear for the shimmy to the runaway, my condescending sneering stopped abruptly and I remained in a seated position with my eyes clenched shut, every muscle in my body contracted, and an arm wrestling death grip on the seat arms. My respirations alternated between barely breathing and taking gasping deep gulps of no-oxygen-because-the-airplane-is-just-about-to-spiral-downwards-into-a-fiery-crash. I also tried to let myself be comforted by my sweet daughters kisses on the cheek, comforting hand holding and rubbing my arm. My husband mostly just stared, presumably wondering if he was going to have to perform CPR, or some other unnatural act in my airway to restart my breathing.

The flight was a mere hour in length, and besides an extended wait and then change of carousels at baggage, the rest of the flight went by without another hiccup. The flight went without problems, but my forgotten makeup bag that included all of my facial essentials, contact lenses, and eye moisturizer was a big prob. I spent the rest of the trip complaining about having to squint my eyes because I couldn’t wear sunglasses, wearing newly purchased but inferior make-up, and applying blush with my fingertips. As I write this and relive the horror 2 days later from a hotel room, I suspect flying anxiety is being channeled back into my existence. I noticed this when I got up to use the bathroom and had a little tickling session with my daughter on the way, during which she bit my leg (I overlooked that one as her justification for tickling torture).  When she kicked my ear so hard it turned red, throbbed, and invisible blood trickled out of it, is when I loudly vowed I would never tickle her again, ever. After lying supine on the floor looking bewildered and disoriented for a few minutes, she promptly locked herself in a small hotel room closet along with the ironing board, extra linens, and hangers that don’t come off the hanging rack. She didn’t come out until the pizza delivery guy knocked on the door, allowing me to finish writing this whole blog. Hmmm, on second thought, maybe I WILL tickle her again :)