i love/hate my heels

Christmas is coming and with it extreme amounts of travel. Although many of you choose to fly to your destinations, I try to stick with ground transportation. Unfortunately, this does not exempt me from airports for the rest of the year. I am currently (and begrudgingly) booking a long overdue flight from Florida to Washington and already my palms are sweating and I feel all twitchy.

As the years have progressed I have become increasingly terrified of flying. Maybe it’s the mysterious influx in Canadian geese? Maybe it’s the media’s hyper coverage of planes simply FALLING out of the sky, either way, as of late I HATE flying. Like hate it in the down-a-half-liter-of-vodka and pop a few Xanax way.
But my big sister decided to move to the other end of the country, and I’m far too proud to give in to my terror. So, fly I must.

I know what you’re thinking…planes are safer than driving your car. This is not the point.

It’s not necessarily the crash I am afraid of, as much as the plummet towards the crash. I’m terrified my vapid thoughts will plague me at moments that should be reserved for spiritual clarity. I fear that the last minute I spend alive will be spent thinking about how I’ll never know what happens on LOST or I should have gotten fries instead of a side salad as my last meal.That, and I fear that I’ll shit my pants in terror in our downward spiral and halfway through the “crash” the plane will right itself. Forcing me to sit through the rest of the flight as the girl who shit herself. As puns would have it, this is fear #2.

The only morbid part I still enjoy about flying is evaluating the passenger inventory in case we crash land on a deserted island. The first thing I do when I walk down the aisle of an aircraft is take a scrutinizing account of who we have on board. And what role these people will play if we end up all Castaway style for the next six years.

First priority: locate future island husband. And yes, I base this completely on age and looks. Which is not shallow, it’s Darwinism. After my provider and future island baby daddy is targeted, I then obsessively will my ticket to have the seat near him. This almost never works, but in the event we don’t crash, I could still use the opportunity to procure some nice vacation booty.

Second priority: locate potential best friend/competition for island husband. I look for other girls my age who look cool or fun. However, other attractive girls must be watched carefully so as not to lose hot island boyfriend. This is cutthroat, people. It’s not like planes are typically filled with attractive men.  One of the key falsities of cinema plane crash scenarios, by the way.

As I look around, I try to identify what everyone’s contribution is going to be to our stranded community.  Wise mentor, security, hut builder, hunter and the expendable. Sorry, but in all likeliness we will not all be surviving this ordeal. Things never seem to look good for the chatter box with the seat next to me.

At this point we are in the air and I have my vodka in hand.

Drink 1: I become concerned with how I am going to MacGyver ways to still shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows and keep a relatively normal appearance while stranded in the middle of the ocean.

Drink 2: I wonder if perhaps I should start hoarding supplies now. I wonder how many baby vodka bottles I can fit in my purse. You know…for island emergencies. The main one being sobriety. 

Drink 3: I ponder how I may need to work on my skill sets in the future to prepare for the crash, so as not to be the island joke.  Perhaps, I should take up some sort of basket weaving…

Drink 4: I remember my new diet will be fruit and get excited about how skinny “island me” will be. Lest not forget tan too. Let’s set this bird down on a tropical paradise, things are looking up!

Drink number…let's just say I've usually stopped counting about the time the captain comes on to announce our descent. This is also about the time my fantasy comes to a screeching halt at the realization that on a flight from Florida to Washington I would never crash land on an island. I would land in Kansas or something.  The only thing scarier to me than flying, is being stranded in the mid-west! It is at this point that the disapproving stewardess comes to collect my army of bottles (which I refer to as my contribution to recycling) and the plane is, thank god, moving closer to the ground.

Until next time...

Safe travels everyone!