Soaring

Having been born with just enough sense to not stick my tongue in a working toaster, I made the decision early in my life to not take unnecessary risks....such as flying. Granted...5 billion satisfied customers a day can't be wrong, but the thought of sitting in a pressurized metal tube scudding at 500 miles per hour 45 000 feet in the air just don't sit well with Mrs. Chicken.

But alas, life being what it is, I found myself in a situation where I had to put my Big Girl Underpants on and take to the skies in order to see my sweet little niece tie the knot. And serve her written warning of what's to come once that minister stops snickering and sneaks out the back door of the church to "youtube" the video.

Being the diligent planner that I am, I asked my teenage son to recommend some TV documentaries to show me what to expect. Sitting down with my popcorn to the DVR menu he so lovingly prepared, I'm aghast at the multiple episodes of "Mayday" and "World's Deadliest Crashes" flashing before my eyes as the boys bust a gut laughing and imitate my pending panic attack at the airport. Chiding them for their insensitivity, I remind them that it's not nice to poke fun at scared people. And that my doctor gave me a bottle of special little pills...and that just one will put me off on an ozone expedition until we land.

Ignoring the youngest boy's frighteningly accurate impression of me being dragged onto the plane kicking and screaming, I grab my luggage and my husband and prepare to become one with the clouds.

Arriving at The Birthplace of Panic, I carefully circle the parking lot looking for that perfect spot to leave my car unattended for over a week. Rejecting the first 400 spaces for various infractions (including, but not limited to, the color of the lines on the pavement not matching my purse), my husband grabs the wheel and orders me to quit stalling, take a pill, and act like I don't know him once we get inside.

Not wanting to feel dopey, and needing to prove to my husband that I have at least as much courage as Scooby Doo when faced with a spook, I shove the pill bottle into my pocket and run through a windy downpour to the first desk in the terminal.

Trying to not sound like a wheeze that picked a fight with a broken flute, and looking like Cranko the Clown just survived a wind tunnel explosion, I bark out my name and scream at the nice lady to please just strap me into a seat and pour me something fermented. Smiling that plastic, "everything's OK because you don't know what really goes on here" smile, the nice lady explains to me that this is the airport security desk, and I'll be giving them a urine sample before I go one step closer to the planes.

Standing to the side watching me get frisked by some obvious X-Files fanatic with Moulder identity issues, my husband insists to the policeman that he has no idea who I am, or why I keep squeaking his name in a voice that sounds like a cricket with tonsillitis. Agreeing to take me off their hands for a free doughnut, my one-and-only steers me towards the gate and spiels his "suck it up, buttercup" speech under his breath.

Arriving at that nasty accordian thing that guides me in to the bowels of Battlestar Gallactica, I find myself digging my heels in to the carpet while bracing my arms against the passengers who are tragically standing in line next to me. Pushing me with surprising strength, the flight attendant pries my jaws open to retrieve our boarding passes, and shoves me into a decrepit fuselage that looks like it was built by some hostile ancient civilization. Listening to my husband spew his defensive "I only wanted to save us a few dollars", and "It isn't actually that old", I distract myself by trying to decipher the cave drawings on the overhead compartment.

Focusing on the safety instructions with the same intensity usually only seen when Bob Barker explains the rules for "Plinko", I memorize the escape routes, and pull my seat belt on tight enough to do my own appendectomy. Launching itself into the air at a speed that temporarily gives us all a facelift, the airplane starts to climb to a height that human beings have no business being subjected to. Listening to my husband marvel at the craftmanship of the vessel, and loudly remind us all that "just one loose bolt...just one...that's all it would take"....I try to loosen my grip on the seat in front of me just enough to cover his mouth.

Cruising at 45 000 feet above the rest of the planet, I feel myself giving way to my bleeding nerves. Trying his best to be the loving, supportive man that I married, my husband gently takes my hand and says, "What is so scary about this?". Grateful for the comfort, I whisper, "If I was to ever crash...I want to be on the ground when I do it"....to which he smirked and whispered, "Oh, you will be....".

Prying my seatbelt off, I yank myself from the seat and realize that I'm no longer safely contained. Pushing the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, I anxiously explain that I need an escort to the bathroom. Giving me that plastic, "you gotta be kidding me honey" smile, she points to a door at the very back of the plane, and tells me to get moving. Gripping the head of each passenger unfortunate enough to be in between me and the back of the plane, I gingerly make my way to the bathroom to see if my bladder will please stop screaming at me.

Squeezing into what appears to be a metal test tube with a toilet in it, I seat myself on the geometric equivalent of a mosquito coil, and try to relax. Finally finding peace with my circumstance, I'm jolted back to reality when it appears that one of the clouds grew giant hands and has a hold of the plane shaking it like a can of spray paint....and I'm the little metal ball. Hanging on for dear life, I try to swiftly resume my somewhat respectable appearance, and somehow get back into a seatbelt like a bat out of hell. Hands shaking, I throttle the pull cord that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, and tell her I need a seat right next to the bathroom to avoid crawling and sobbing back to the other end of the plane. Giving me that plastic, "your husband paid $39.99 for your seat, now crawl back to it" smile, she shoves me in the opposite direction and hides behind a curtain.

Trekking back down the aisle steadying myself by grasping the hair of the poor unfortunates seated in between me and safety, I fling myself into the seat and tie the seatbelt into a triple-bow-weavel knot and dig into my pocket for that bottle of pills. Whimpering for my husband to help me undo the childproof cap, I notice with disgust that he not only fell asleep, he pinned a note to my seat saying, "Only take the peanuts if they're free".

Unsuccessfully choking the pill bottle trying to get it to open, those giant hands grasp the plane again, jostling us all like a washing machine on steroids and making my teeth rattle. Clutching the pill bottle like my husband on a ten dollar bill, the lid finally pops open, and several little special pills plummet into my husband's gaping, snoring mouth. Sputtering and cursing as he's heaved awake, he swallows the pills and commences with the "I can't leave you alone for a minute without a helmet on" rant.

Slowly relaxing from the chemical pacifier, he neatly tucks his thumb into his mouth as his eyes glaze over and curls into the fetal position to resume sleeping. Punching the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, I explain that now that I've drugged my husband into oblivion, I need someone to reassure me that we're not all going to plunge to our deaths at any moment. Giving me that plastic, "sit still and be quiet or we'll tell customs you smuggled a baby giraffe in your bags" smile, she pleasantly tells me to quit ringing unless I set something on fire, and gives my peanuts to the guy behind me.

Bouncing violently while screaming my head off, I repeatedly elbow my husband to jar him awake. Jerking to a sitting position like a zombie in some B Movie that just smelled fresh brains, he climbs over the seat and instantly begins clumsily pawing at the face of the guy sitting behind me and shouting "I luff you!". Kicking the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant, I try to explain why my husband is now riding the drink cart up and down the aisle and trying to pick a fight with a personal floatation device. Giving me that plastic, "let me show you how to exit the plane now" smile, she snarls at me that she's calculating her odds with a jury of her peers, and the numbers are looking good.

Sulking in my seat, I ignore the stares of the other passengers as the crew duct-tapes my husband to his seat and announce we're landing. Now. Wherever we are.

Feeling tremendous relief as the plane taxis to a bumpy stop on some deserted highway, I gently push the button that will summon some poor, unsuspecting flight attendant and ask her how I safely disembark. Giving me that plastic, "I'll help you when hell not only freezes over but mass-produces its own brand of popsicles" smile, she flings the door open and propels us both down the blow-up slide. Rolling it back up as we skid onto the road, she gives me a solid "Get a dental infection" salute, and slams the door shut.

Helping my husband stagger to his feet, I brush the dust from our shirts and watch the plane take off from the highway amid loud whooping and cheering. Listening to my husband's Gaelic lament about the $79.98 in airfare now wasted, I proudly whip out the bag of peanuts I stole back from the guy sitting behind me while he was pawing at him. Checking our bearings as my husband tries to con a squirrel into buying the peanuts for $79.98, I stick my thumb out to a pick up truck full of chickens and sheep that pulls over with what appears to be the main character from "The Beverly Hillbillies vs Jackass" behind the wheel.

As I hoist my befuddled husband into the back of the truck beside the livestock, I take my place beside The Mother of All Angry Sheep and settle in for what will be the longest two day ride of my life.

Still. Beats. Flying.....