I’m trapped in the last row of an airplane that’s callously hurtling me toward Denver at 400 miles MPH. If you’ve known me for more than eleven minutes, you are aware that I’m terrified of flying so this experience makes me want to club a baby seal with a kitten.
I should get a medal for being willing to get into this bucket of steel and let myself be flung 3,000 feet in the air. According to my friends on Twitter though, apparently many of you sick bastards actually like to fly. I can’t understand why. Airports? Yeah, I’m down with airports because I love to people watch and imagine where my fellow travelers are going (of course since I live in the shadow of The Mouse, no doubt 9/10ths of the people are going home). I even think the planes themselves are kinda cool, especially since everything is downsized. Miniature bathrooms, small seats, tiny liquor bottles (so I’m, uh, told), and itty-bitty pillows (who uses those? head lice, anyone?) But the actual act of flying? No, thank you.
I’d have no problem with plane travel if I bould buckle in while the aircraft simply rolled down the interstate until we got where we needed to be. Driving the plane down the road is about the only way to make this an enjoyable experience for me.
Sidenote: Some maroon in front of me just opened a huge bag of barbeque chips. The whole area smells like a Frito-Lays factory just blew up. How do I find out if there’s a air marshal on board? No, I don’t want this guy arrested. I just don’t want to go to jail for shanking him with my pen.
The illustrious Zack W. told me just before boarding to consider the plane a primitive space shuttle. I’ll admit that got me through ascent, typically the hardest part of the flight for me. Other challenges include: acceleration, takeoff, reaching altitude, flying straight, turning of any kind, descent, full wheelstop, and deplaning. But, yeah, those 13 seconds when I was quietly chanting, “primitive space shuttle, primitive space shuttle” were transcendent. Thanks, Zack!
I’m slightly hyper-aware on airplanes because there’s always the off-chance the flight crew might miss something important like a subtle smell, a tiny noise, or the loss of the entire left wing (who needs the right-wing anyway, bunch of jack-booted thugs *rimshot*). Every time we sail over the smallest bump of turbulence, I tense up like I’m about to be slugged by Ving Rhames. God help me if the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign comes on mid-flight because to me it signals impending doom and certain death.
You see, many years ago I was on my way to Kansas City when our pilot decided to amuse us by flying directly through a thunderstorm or, as I like to think of it Hurricane Delta. The seatbelt sign came on and the passengers dutifully secured themselves, but the cabin crew kept serving beverages (in hindsight, I should have had 36 shots of Jack instead of that Sprite). After a few minutes, the pilot announced “things could get a little bumpy,” which I later realized is code for “we may have to fly upside down to survive this.”
Since the flight attendants were still walking around, I figured things were still going to be all right even though the bouncing was beginning to unnerve me. About five minutes later, I heard a bell and the cabin crew snapped to attention, shoved their carts into the closet and quite literally ran to their seats. I must have looked like I was going to pass out because the man next to me started telling me everything would be fine, there was nothing to worry about, and all the other platitudes people say to calm a crazy person.
If what we’d experienced up til then was pebble-drop on the turbulence scale, the next 10 minutes were akin to being slammed by a meteor. We rolled, pitched, leaned, bounced, and jerked so hard I thought the paint would peel. We pulled maneuvers that the Blue Angels would envy. Of course, I did what any sensible adult woman would do in that situation.
I burst into tears.
The poor man next to me tried so hard to make me feel better but all I could do was weep into a napkin bearing the logo of the airline that was going to get me killed. The turbulence finally let up and everything began to settle down when apparently Mother Nature had one last flare of PMS. The plane abruptly dropped what I’m told was about two feet (though I’m certain it was more like 632), prompting me to grab the thigh of the man next to me. I yelped in fear and he yelped in surprise, no doubt while calculating the cost of a restraining order against me. Ever since that flight, the sound of the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign raises my blood pressure about 90 points.
I also consider it my personal responsibility to make sure I know where the flight attendants are at all times. For example, weight must be evenly distrubuted on both sides of the plane and for god’s sake, don’t ever lean over to look out the window! The aircraft may tilt. Flight attendants are the traffic cops of the airspace and I won’t hesitate to call one over to have to strapped to your seat with headphone cords if you try to alter our delicate balance while we are in flight.
Keeping track of the crew also keeps me aware if anything is amiss because they’re the first to know. If they keep serving drinks after a sudden boom followed by cabin depressurization, then I can go back to my book because everything’s fine. If one of them suddenly beats a hasty retreat to his seat and straps in when everything seems normal, I know it’s time to update my will. All in all, if the cabin crew ever leaves my line of sight I’m a basket case. If they sit, I know it’s time to panic.
Speaking of panic, you probably think I’d make a terrible seatmate but I don’t. Despite being a complete emotional train wreck, I’m the picture of serenity on the outside. To the casual observer, I look like I’m reading Sky Mall as we take off but what you don’t know is that I’ve been staring at the same picture since I sat down. I may seem like I’m enjoying the music on my iPod but in reality it’s not even turned on. I just have my earbuds in so no one will talk to me and distract me from listening vigilantly for the sound of falling fuselage. In fact, the only time a fellow passenger would have issues with me is over whether to keep the window shade up or down (down, so I don’t have to watch as we defy gravity and physics for the whole three-hour flight so back off the shade, bissshh!!!).
As I type this, we’ve hit some turbulence so I’m going to put this laptop away and concentrate on keeping the plane in the sky. One last thing before I go. Before I took off, many of you Tweeted and texted me with words of encouragement, humor, or both. I’m grateful that so many of you took the time to wish me well (or tell me to suck it up and quit whining but, whatever, that works too). If ever I can return the favor or support you in any way, just say the word and I’m there. Unless, of course, it involves flying and then, well, I’m not.
Posted by Lisa Hoover 
