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The Sky's The Limit

Written by Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant

Wednesday, 09 April 2008

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.