John: "Would you like a seat on the wing or aisle?"
Me: "How about in a car? Do they have one of those?"
I haven't been on a plane since 2000. That summer, I went to Hawaii for the second time to see my sister, this last time dragging a willing John with me. By the time we were ready to board the flight over to Honolulu however, I was near hyperventilation.
I remember John staring at me, asking if I would be okay, and in response, I showed him the two sleeping pills I had packed in my purse, to be consumed the moment boarding started.
The flights went well, both to and from, although in my mind, they were far from perfect. The slight turbulence was a sign of imminent danger. An overhead compartment which hadn't been closed properly, sprang open and deposited a large backpack onto a passenger's head. This, to me at least, was an omen of things to come. Nothing happened. I slept fitfully throughout the long flights, and made it back onto solid ground with nary a hair out of place. (Although frizzy hair may look out of place to others, I actually considered it a good hair day.)
Back then, I summed my anxiety up to a fear of heights, something which had only begun plaguing me in my early twenties. My fear extended to balconies, bridges, and any high places where the lobby wasn't within sight. This fear still exists now as I am unable to stand too close to a railing without feeling as if I'm about to pitch forward and takes me a while to get comfortable when I'm positioned anywhere elevated.
Now, this fear of mine doesn't just involve heights, it involves control. I never like to be in any situation where the control is not in my hands. I do not have a "devil may care" personality, nor do I like to "take life by the horns", because the possibility of injury or death scares me too much.
Yes, I am afraid of death. Even the thought of my possible demise scares me. I'm sure there will not be pain, but I don't want there to be "nothing. This is it. Game over. You're done. You've had your turn. There are no do overs, Charlie Brown." This is where religion helps others some, but me and my scientific brain are not easily convinced with hearsay and theory. We like the tried and true money back refund if you're not satisfied, but I don't believe death even has a customer service department, let alone a guarantee. Sure, I can say what I hope will happen when my ticket is up, that I get to keep tabs on those I love, haunt those I don't, and maybe skip back and put a little gloss on those blunders I would rather forget, but you just don't know. My friend Robin and I recently had a conversation about it, and her answer on why she's not afraid of death was "I'd rather be wrong than right" when I questioned her belief in the hereafter. I love her reasoning and would love nothing better than to get on board with it, but my inane desire to be right would probably not be squelched.
So, I decided, way before the economy and terrorism put their two cents in on the matter, that I would never again step onto a plane. It was that simple. When people tried to make plans with us, I would give a noncommittal "maybe" and then point the finger at money, timeliness, or the Northern Lights as to why we would be unable to fly up, down, or over.
John, showing me just how much patience he had, compromised a lot when we made travel plans, sticking to areas like Orlando or St. Augustine so the drive wouldn't kill us. Over the years, he eventually stopped asking if I would ever work up the courage to fly again.
But then..
Back in the beginning of the year, fellow bloggers decided to join up for a weekend of hedonism in Colorado and I REALLY wanted to go, not only because I admired these women so much from what I had read about them, but also because Colorado just looks beautiful, I had never been, and damn it! I needed a vacation. Away from John and Sprite. So it would remind me of how much I love them... yeah. That's it..
I immediately looked into booking train tickets. I know. Insane. John told me so for months. But now I DO know that it takes 36 hours to get from Fort Myers to Denver. For a weekend getaway. At the rate I was going, my three day weekend was turning into a one week road trip with ample opportunity for pictures (of passing trees) and I was actually okay with that since my logical side had already decided to take a sabbatical, or I'm sure she would have put her two cents in. (I hear she should be back in a few years, although the "for rent" sign where this logic was is a little tacky.)
John finally put his foot down (by way of his mouse and endless Googling on my behalf) and told me I would fly or I just wouldn't go because I was making myself (and him) a little batty.
Well, as the Recession and prices indicated, these plans were canceled, and I was secretly relieved that I wouldn't have to cop out due to my own stupid fears and loudly blamed it on the economy with the rest of the bloggers who had shown interest.
Then another plan came about. While hashing out these possibilities, I found out that Jen from Steenky Bee also had a fear of flying, so we agreed to come out of hiding together. We also agreed we would face our fears together, even if it's on separate flights. (Besides, Jenbo owes me a shirt.) (And after flying all this way, she'll owe me a hug too.)
I am going to get on a plane. It's done. My ticket is booked. John threatened warned me that there is no turning back now. I am going to climb into a metal tube and hope that between take off and landing, the plan doesn't need to make an unscheduled stop. I am going to pick up a prescription for Valium or Merlot, whichever takes the edge off the easiest, so the other passengers aren't eying me for drugs or insanity. And I will do my best to not scream out "We're going to die!" every time we hit an aerial pot hole or some other nonsense. (John thinks that with training, we can turn that go-to "We're going to die!" into an "Oopsie!", kind of like when we replace certain words with "sugar" or "shnikes". I'm sure this will draw looks, but John said these looks will at least not come with restraints.)
Thanks to John finding me a direct flight both ways to limit the amount of times I have to do this, I will arrive in Chicago and arrive back home with only my hair as an indication of my frizzy thoughts. (Somehow, he reasoned that my fear may hamper my quick thinking during layovers and having to get from one gate to another gate forty minutes ago and even the possible "John, can you pick me up? I'm in Tulsa." scenario which would not be pretty. For me. Or Tulsa, I reckon.)
I am giving up control. I am facing my fear(s).

Will I see you there?