Flying without Fear

For the past couple of years, I've had this thing about flying. I wouldn't say I was afraid to fly, but I definitely experienced the quickening of the pulse, sweaty brow, and dry mouth associated with mild anxiety. I hate having mild anxiety; it's neurotic behavior which is ultimately time-wasting. It's inefficient and stupid. However, the thought of being hurled through the air in an alumnium tube with no real control over my fate did tend to elicit the same reaction once solely reserved for encountering spiders. But, when flying to an interview for a job which requires traveling (by air), there really is no other option than to just go into things with a sense of humor and hope for the best.

So Monday morning, I boarded a 50 person capacity regional jet and hoped for the best.

As I walked down the aisle, I took comfort in knowing that my seat was toward the back of the plane. People seated in the back of the plane have slightly better odds of survival than those up front. Personally, I would have preferred to sit in the black box, but my ticket was for seat 22A, so I had to settle for that.

Dressed in my business suit and being careful to not bump anyone with my sleek and stylish carry on bag, I skillfully maneuvered the (exaggeration) 6" wide aisle and made my way toward the back of the plane and opened a stowage compartment, lifted my roll on bag above my head and tried to slide it into the unit. It slid in about an inch or two and then just stopped. So I tried again. And again. Then panic set in. I was sure I could feel 40 some-odd sets of eyes on me. I didn't bother to check as I pulled the bag out of the compartment and tried to place it in another compartment. Same result. I'm now standing at the very back of the plane, pushing and shoving and tilting it every which way trying to make it fit. I was confused-the bag fit into the "smart cart" thing they keep by the check-in desks in the terminal. You know the ones where if your bag will fit in the box, it'll fit on the plane? One of those. Finally, I pulled it out, mentally cursed it, and tried again...and thankfully/miraculously, it fit.

So with that task out of the way, I was making my way to my seat. Yes-it was a window seat, which means a good view and something other than my seatmate's shoulder to rest my head on should I actually relax enough to doze. She stood up a bit to allow me to slide past her and I stepped into the seating area, facing her (crotch as oppsed to ass, as 'Fight Club' so eloquently described). Feeling pretty good about finally getting to sit down and buckle up for the trip, I started to sit down into my seat when I felt my foot catch on hers. And down I went...as reflex, putting my right arm out to stop my fall, grabbing the head of the guy sitting in front of me as I fell into my seat. I swear I felt the hair on his head scoot backward as I went down into my chair. Toupee! Did I just rip off this guy's toupee?

I had no hair in my hands. I peered over the seat to see him smoothing his hair and I apologized for nearly scalping him (a simple "I'm terribly sorry about that") and sat there for a moment smoothing my suit and trying not to laugh. A few minutes later, the tiny jet took off as I mentally chanted three words and thought of happy things. And even a few minutes more later, I was up in the air, watching St. Louis grow smaller by the second, allowing myself to think in wonder and amazement "wow, I'm flying."