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Holy crap. I hate flying. I seriously hate it.
Last weekend, Beth and I went down to
Charleston, South Carolina for a wedding and we took a flight out of
Dulles. It's only an hour and a half flight (or, more precisely, one
hour and six minutes from takeoff until touchdown--trust me, I timed
it), but for me it seemed like a nine-hour flight. It was brutal.
I can't exactly pinpoint when I started to
develop this fear, but I'm sure it had something to do with a bad
takeoff or a bad landing I must have gone through because that's what
really freaks me out. Actually, now that I think of it, it's the takeoff
more than anything that. I mean, it seems that those big honkin' planes
are just too fucking heavy to get off the ground. Yeah, landings
aren't exactly a piece of cake for me and I'm not found of turbulence
either, but at least I can have a few bloody marys after we've taken off
to calm me down.
Yes, I know it's an irrational fear, and yes, I
know air travel is safer than traveling by car, blah blah blah. But that
doesn't help me. The only thing that helps me at all is to tell myself
that if the plane were to go down, there would be absolutely nothing I
could do about it. That's a very odd way of thinking, but for some
reason it does help me a little bit. Ha ha ha! We're rolling over at
35,000 feet! Oh well, at least I got free pretzels before I plummet to
my death!
Shit.
And it sure as balls doesn't help when you're
sitting in the hotel lounge--the night before your return flight
home--listening to people tell their Worst Airline Near-Disaster
Stories. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! Shut up, people!
Oh, the wedding was fun, though. I had a good
time. |
2000-2006