My brother Tom used to say that Americans were the only people in the world who cleaned before the maid came and tanned before they went on vacation. For me, getting ready to go away imposes a pressure all its own. First, several gazillion things that I have let go all year long are suddenly breathing down my neck. God forbid I don’t deserve my break. Furthermore, my house had better be clean, in ways it never otherwise is, in case we die on a plane and relatives have to unlock the front door and comb through the papers for the will we haven’t gotten around to making.
Why do I always feel so mournful when we’re getting ready to go on a trip? It might be that in my childhood, loading up into the car for a trip meant Dad had been transferred and we were moving. Again.
Then there’s the flying part. For the daughter of an Air Force pilot, I’ve got one hell of a resistance to strapping myself into a huge HEAVY hunk of metal that purports to deny gravity with the use of thrusters and other dodgy-sounding mechanicals.
Once I’m aboard, when everyone else is heaving a deep sigh of relief at having crossed off their to-do lists, I’m just getting started. I figure when it’s Mission Impossible, we’ve all got to pitch in. It’s tiring though, keeping prayer lines open Dear Jesus, please dear Lord, don't let this plane fall out of the sky! while at the same time listening for metal pings gone awry. Did you hear that! Did that sound like a bolt falling off an engine mount to you?
It was much worse when my kids were little. There I’d be, holding my toddler, trying to be a grown-up with her act together but truly and deeply wanting my own mommy to get me the hell out of Dodge. I’d watch the flight attendants' faces for the slightest sign of alarm and fellow passengers for expressions of guilt/remorse, Oh, what a cute baby; why did we pick this flight to hijack? My absorption in helping the pilot keep the plane afloat could often make me a less than attentive mommy. I remember one time, allowing Curran, who was only one year old, to have my plastic cup of ice water. I knew he shouldn't have those tiny chokable cubes, shouldn't learn that Mommy would do anything if he whimpered enough, but I was busy.
They’re big now, my kids, old enough to see that Mother will never be a real-life grown-up with her act together. She’s someone who is simultaneously summoning help from Above while reminding herself that she doesn’t have to take this anxiety lying down.
After all, I’m not the first person who’s had this fear. I’ve learned a thing or two. There are ways of dealing with unreasonable emotions.
1. First off, there is science. Statistically speaking, you could fly every day for two thousand years and not be in a single plane crash. To which I am inwardly shrieking “What! Spend centuries doing something I loathe, just to prove a point? And after the first eighty years, think of all the wheelchairs the airlines would have to set aside, just for me.” Scrap that. Uh-oh, bad word choice. On to the next selection.
2. Well-meaning enablers suggest a cocktail or two, but I’ve tried that. Two, three Bloody Marys in an hour are just enough to loosen my inhibitions and fling open the affective flood gates. Now, I can admit I’M REALLY SCARED! and can’t seem to stop myself from shrieking when the plane hits an air pocket. Plus, I suspect God doesn’t approve of drinking during the day. Why burn bridges?
3. I have found partial relief in viewing a really terrifying movie on my laptop. One of the calmest flights I took was spent in the grip of "Under Siege." Terrorists take over a submarine and Steven Segal is singlehandedly responsible for putting out fires, killing bad guys and defusing bombs. I call this the Comfort of Comparative Misery. After all, things could be worse.
4. Fly first class. There is something soothing about those huge leather seats and all that attention. Once, when I was upgraded, I kept thinking, "They couldn't charge you that much to kill you."
5. Buy that million dollar insurance policy at the little booth in the airport. As my friend Jane’s father is fond of saying "No one could be that lucky."
6. Try to figure out what it is that's really bothering you. Is it a deeply buried childhood memory, your mother's constant worry over your pilot father's safety, your first flight at the age of four, the deafening engine roar, the size of the plane? Could the plane be representing something else you find traumatic? Your credit card balances, for example?
7 Find a distraction. Count how many male passengers have taken the whole armrest, leaving neighboring women to crunch their arms into their rib cages. Ponder the mystery of the impenetrable Mylar peanut bag. It's not, as everyone before you has supposed, a sadist who invented the peanut package. It was either a desperate frequent flyer who hoped no one would be able to access their “musical fruit” or it was part of an early feminist conspiracy to get the male passengers so intent on proving their strength that they were forced to forfeit occupancy of the armrest long enough for the women to relieve their aching and annoyed elbows.
9. If you find comfort in others, converse with your fellow passengers. For a few minutes one flight, I found myself completely occupied in my search for words, explaining to the little old lady in front of me, whose head had just been drenched by a plastic cup of ice water, that my one year old son did not yet have an attorney.
10. Become a Buddhist. Abandon yourself to the whims of the universe, throw yourself upon the waters of life and accept what fate has in store for you. In other words, when your number’s up, your number's up. Look around at those you love, appreciate them all, bask in the camaraderie of your final moments together. Face the fact that no matter how hard you press the sole of your shoe against the metal footrest, it will not operate the braking system of the plane.
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