It is a little known fact that I’m a white-knuckle flyer.
That being said – I fly a lot.
I’m mostly fine. Nothing a few screwdrivers in the airport or a Xanax can’t fix.
Except I never actually have either of those things. More’s the pity for the people around me.
I’m in Portland right now.
The plan is for me to come home Monday evening, as there are patients and cats who expect my return by Tuesday.
The trip up Friday evening was eventful solely for a full flight and high-number Southwest Airlines boarding pass that put Himself and I nearly last on the plane. There were only middle seats left. At which point I announced to the cabin, “I’m going to be digging my nails into someone and I’m sure everyone would be happier if it was my husband.”
A kind gentleman moved so I could gouge the arms of a man that the state of California considers it copascetic for me to.
The flight was fine, a little bumpy as flights into Portland always are, at which point I always regret being too cheap to buy a $9 cocktail.
Then Saturday morning I woke up to see that a Southwest flight from Phoenix to Sacramento had to make an emergency landing when a hole tore open in the roof at 36,000 feet.
Now, a few things about me and flying.
Despite the fact that the odds of a flight disaster are in the same probability class as winning the lottery, I never buy lottery tickets yet remain convinced that my plane is destined for a precipitous reunion with the ground.
I am also unshakable in my belief that the only thing holding the airplane aloft is my laser-focused concentration. I stare straight ahead and hiss hostilely at the flight attendant who distracts me by offering me a package of stale pretzel fragments because, my god woman, I have a job to do here! Don’t make me start flapping my arms!
So imagine my state of mind knowing that a plane that shares the same paint job as the one I am going to be flying home on had to make an emergency landing because of the unexpected addition of a window in the ceiling.
Now, I know we can’t agree on a whole lot as a population, but I think we can all safely reach consensus on planes having roofs.
Call me old fashioned.
Call me a coward.
Call me anything your bloody well want, but I draw the line at getting on a plane that bears any resemblance of any kind to Swiss cheese.
So this afternoon, think fond panic-free thoughts for me.
And think positive thoughts for Himself and the integrity of the skin on his forearms.