Suburban Snapshots: Preparing for Takeoff

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Usually when I tell someone how afraid I am of air travel, they wonder if I've ever flown before. I have, a decent amount. After traveling to Sicily and then Charleston, South Carolina in 1998, I took a thirteen-year hiatus, avoiding the friendly skies at all costs. I genuinely enjoy road trips — as a kid we took plenty of them — but when my company announced that this year's annual department meeting would be happening in Orlando, I knew the three of us were sky-bound. Let's just get this Mickey Mouse bullshit out of the way while one of us is on the company dime, I decided.

It's not that I think I'm going to die in a fiery wreck, though I do love that phrase. I don't think I'm going to be hijacked, or that the roof is going to tear off of my plane, dropping cabin pressure and sucking me out the gaping hole. I just don't like that rollercoaster feeling of being completely out of control of the stomach-dropping movements, and okay, I guess sometimes I think we might hit a big air speed bump (which reminds me, all around Disney there are signs that say, "Speed Hump." The jokes write themselves.) that's going to flip us upside down and send us spiraling earthward.

But I recognize that I'm irrational and I didn't want Anna to get even a whiff of my trepidation. I wanted her to keep being brave in the way dumb little kids are, to walk courageously down the ~~Tunnel of Terror~~ jetway. I wanted her to squeeze through the legs of other boarding passengers and get us good seats. I knew I had to maintain at least the appearance of cool confidence, even if I felt like standing up mid-takeoff (as family legend has it a relative who shall remain anonymous once did) and scream, "Turn this [expletive omitted] plane around!" I may have taken half a sedative as we left the house to help achieve my zen-like state upon boarding. I may have also pounced on the flight attendant to order a cranberry and vodka the second they were available. But people, I maintained. I did it for my kid. I managed to smile and say, "Wheee!!" on takeoff. I was proud of myself regardless of Mama's Little Helpers.

Anna was amazing, as nonplussed as a kid can be about anything that might send an adult into cold sweats and trembling hands. She insisted on the window seat, then kept closing the blinds. She refused to keep her seatbelt fastened. Just like a pain in the ass kid on any flight you've ever taken, she wanted to kick the seats and visit the lav four-hundred times.

Obviously there was no fiery wreck, no gaping roof hole, no rogue, plane-flipping air pocket. I didn't scare my kid, and I'm happy to report that while I won't go out of my way to fly, I realize that my discomfort is only a little bit beyond the normal range and not the pants-peeing terror I was sure I had.

But I recognize that I'm irrational and I didn't want Anna to get even a whiff of my trepidation. I wanted her to keep being brave in the way dumb little kids are, to walk courageously down the ~~Tunnel of Terror~~ jetway. I wanted her to squeeze through the legs of other boarding passengers and get us good seats. I knew I had to maintain at least the appearance of cool confidence, even if I felt like standing up mid-takeoff (as family legend has it a relative who shall remain anonymous once did) and scream, "Turn this [expletive omitted] plane around!" I may have taken half a sedative as we left the house to help achieve my zen-like state upon boarding. I may have also pounced on the flight attendant to order a cranberry and vodka the second they were available. But people, I maintained. I did it for my kid. I managed to smile and say, "Wheee!!" on takeoff. I was proud of myself regardless of Mama's Little Helpers.

Anna was amazing, as nonplussed as a kid can be about anything that might send an adult into cold sweats and trembling hands. She insisted on the window seat, then kept closing the blinds. She refused to keep her seatbelt fastened. Just like a pain in the ass kid on any flight you've ever taken, she wanted to kick the seats and visit the lav four-hundred times.

Obviously there was no fiery wreck, no gaping roof hole, no rogue, plane-flipping air pocket. I didn't scare my kid, and I'm happy to report that while I won't go out of my way to fly, I realize that my discomfort is only a little bit beyond the normal range and not the pants-peeing terror I was sure I had.