Maybe it's just me, but every time I cross the threshold of an airplane en route to one of the many destinations that I've been in the past few years, (mostly sunny and fabulastic Columbus, Ohio) I absolutely FREAK OUT. This is completely irrational freaking out, because A. I've been flying all my life, and 2. my hus-friend and I are never not on an airplane, hence I should be over it by now. But it happens all the same, so here is how it works: sweaty/nasty palms, beaded up forehead, severe and instantaneous nausea, incessant reciting of every Catholic prayer I can remember from my early years at Mater Dei Academy. (Yes, I seriously went to the Mother of God Academy.)
Also included in my in-flight psychotic routine is the absolute realization that I, or Mr. G, am going to die and my friends and family are going to take it really, really hard. The height of this spectacle is always as we are approaching arrival, and I can see buildings close to the airport. I always take note of these buildings because I am absolutely certain we are going to hit one or several of them. And sometimes I wonder from this height, are those people at home now or at work? I hope they're at work so when we hit their apartment building it will be empty.
What is my deal? I know the routine so well, you'd think I take some sort of sick delight in it. Since we've been flying a lot in the most recent past few months, I've taken to new hobbies like dreaming about being in planes that are going down. I kid you not, this is the dream I had last week: I arrive at the airport, go through security, walk to my gate, board the plane through the usual gate, stow my baggage in the overhead bin, buckle in, we take off, and then all of the sudden the plane takes a violent nosedive all the way to the ground, upon which time I wake up FREAKING OUT, again. And do you know the kicker? Two days later I had to fly to Columbus.
I don't mind flying, I really don't. It's exciting, mostly. Mostly being thrown in there to account for the death dreams and flying nervous breakdowns. Plus, I love arriving some place as the visitor and everyone's happy to see you. I know there's going to be a time in my life when I remember these days and trips as so very thrilling, blah-yada etc, so I'm trying to go with the flow. But just in case, I want the dog to go to Leslie and Zach, the furniture to Vince and Heidi, the booze to my Dad (he needs it more than I do), and my autographed photo of Hulk Hogan to David Riley because he was terribly jealous of it in the 5th grade (even though he says he wasn't).