To say that I absolutely positively loathe flying with all of my heart is an understatement. A major understatement. The first thing I do when I board the plane is start counting down how long until I can get off of it. I also look for the nice looking flight attendant who will give me an extra dose of vodka. I'm not normally a huge fan of hard liquor, but when I'm on a plane I drink enough to put a sailor to shame.
There is a Mexican restaurant in San Francisco International Airport. I always stop there when I'm flying out of SF and order flautas and a gin and tonic. The bartender knows me. It's embarrassing.
Flying is nothing new. My parents divorced when I was quite young and my family is scattered across the U.S. I've been flying alone since I was a very little girl. (British guy reminded me that I'm still little. Fine. When I was very young.) I used to love flying. I loved the view. The peanuts. The clouds. The soda (which normally I wasn't really allowed to drink, but nobody told the flight attendant that). I even loved the turbulence. For me it was the equivalent of a ride at a theme park. I was not afraid because I trusted my parents. I trusted that they since they let me get on the plane then surely nothing bad would happen. My parents loved me. They protected me. I trusted that. End of story.
But at some point, I stopped trusting that everything would work out.
I became afraid.
Very afraid.
And now I'm sitting here thinking that I have to get on a plane to Morocco in a few hours and wondering when the earliest acceptable time for drinking is. Noon? But what if I put orange juice in it? 10:00 a.m.? That's in two minutes. I'm going to go with that.
No comments:
Post a Comment