Leaving on a Jet Plane; Don’t Know If I’ll Be Back Again. (I Might Die)
So, it turns out I can’t sleep, because I forgot that I am terrified of airplanes. I always do that! I think I probably made that irrational fear of mine apparent when earlier this week I beseeched celebrities to do away with their dangerous obsession with small aircraft, but it’s this sort of subconscious, latent dread that never truly surfaces until about 24 hours before take-off.
The takeoffs and landings are the parts that really bother me, and I usually release my death grip on my seat and start to breathe again once I am thousands and thousands of feet in the air but can shut the window blind. I happen to know that takeoffs and landings (a great Rilo Kiley album, btw) are the most dangerous parts of a flight, where things are more likely to go horribly wrong. The physical sensations associated with ascension and descension — the tilt upward/downward, the acceleration, the popping eardrums — do nothing to mitigate this fear. I usually have some kind of sedative or anxiety pill to deal with this or I deliberately make myself so tired, by staying up all night, that by the time I board the plane I’m too dizzy with sleep-dep to actually notice that I am in mortal danger.
So can somebody please explain to me why I somehow deluded myself into thinking that it was worth it to book a flight with, not one, but TWO stops along the way? Just to save $40? I’m probably going to end up spending at least that in airport bars during my layovers, drinking myself into a stupor.
My friends, I beg you: next time you catch wind of my planning a trip that involves air travel, please point me toward this post before I book a flight, so as to jog my goldfish memory of my morbid dread of take-off.
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