 I've always been an uneasy flyer. I'm just not that fond of any mode of
transportation that may require an oxygen mask or bobbing around in the Pacific
Ocean hanging onto a 1" inch-thick seat cushion praying that the flight
attendant wasn't yanking my chain when she said the damn thing would float. I
also don't like sharing the onboard port-a-can with 143 strangers whose toilet
habits often leave something to be desired.
Given my flying history, I have perfectly legitimate reasons to get
queasy whenever I'm standing in my stocking feet being felt up by a TSA agent
with latex gloves and a facial tic. I indistinctly remember traveling overseas
in the 60s in what seemed to be a cargo plane, surrounded by crates of oranges
that were also making the trek to Frankfurt, Germany. Of course, there is a
possibility this was just a dream I had, but it definitely shaped the way I feel
about air travel, so I'm counting it as real one way or the
other.
Then there's the fact that when I was growing up
my dad worked as an air traffic controller. And even though Take Your Daughter
to Work Day hadn't yet been invented, he often carted me along to his job. You
know how they say you shouldn't visit a sausage factory, well believe me when I
say you should never, ever, watch air traffic controllers work if you plan to
step foot on a plane again. Of course this was back in the old days when the
controllers would stick their finger out the window to determine wind speed and
the air traffic monitors looked just like a game of Pong. Things may have
improved a little, but don't count on it.
Oh, and let's not forget that my first husband
worked for Boeing, so I also got to see and hear all about how airplanes were
put together. And which employees were busy knocking back a sixpack during break
and which only tightened the bolts halfway in protest for not getting a raise.
For years, I flew with a cordless drill and wrench set just in case anything
needed tightening up mid-flight. Of course, these days, you have to settle for a
roll of duct tape and a ball of rubber bands.
Then there was the time I went for a glider ride
and landed in a pasture full of angry bulls. Not having a blowgun filled with
Prozac, the pilot and I had to run for our lives.
These days, I only fly on commercial airplanes,
but I have flown into Denver on many occasions. Anyone who flies
knows that landing in Denver is the equivalent in terms of
white-knuckle experiences of having
a pap smear while riding a roller coaster with Dick Cheney. I think people who
regularly fly into Denver should get free therapy for their PTSD
(post-turbulence stress disorder).
Despite decades of dealing with my fear of flying,
at least I used to feel okay sitting at the airport. Not now. These days, the
airport is just as scary as the flight itself. You have to make it through the
maze of security stations, not knowing whether you'll be exposed to the giant
full-body glaucoma test they've installed in some airports or patted down so
thoroughly they can report a suspicious mole to your doctor. You have to grasp
your $800 ticket to a city in the next state and your driver's license and pray
that you don't accidentally let go of them while buying your $14 coffee. And
once you finally get to your gate, you sit in the boarding area and watch MSNBC
report on how many planes have just been yanked from the fleet so the airlines
can check them for small parts that could become choking hazards or lead paint
that could pose health risks to small children.
When it comes to nightmares, I'd rather be riding
in a cargo plane with crates of oranges than watching every flight on the
departure board change to "Cancelled" as I'm rereading USA Today for the seventh
time. I think from now on, I'll just stay home. The tickets are cheap and I kind
of like being patted down in my living
room.
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Quirkee Voices 
(0 vote)
