I’m trying to be rational. I already have an irrational fear of flying, just based on the idea of flying. Being thousands upon thousands of feet up in the air. Doesn’t give a person much hope of survival in the case of a crash, does it?
Chris tries to reason with me. More people die in car crashes than plane crashes every year. You’re actually safer in a plane than in a car. Would that make you feel better? Not me. At least in a car – I have a chance. Death isn’t certain — it depends on the accident, doesn’ t it? How often have you heard of someone living through a plane crashing to the ground from 40,000 feet up?
I know. I said I wasn’t going to talk about it. I keep my neurosis to myself (for the most part) when Chris flies. I don’t want to worry him or stress him out anymore than need be. I’m trying to be calm. My flight to LA is rapidly approaching — I guess it’s the loss of total control that gives me the creeps.
Then, I’m browsing news sites and find this.
I’m told, “Well, you could live your life in fear and terror and give into those fuckers.”
I reply – – yea, that’s what my headstone will say. “She didn’t give into those fuckers”
Suppose my family will say in pride, “Well, she didn’t give into those fuckers.”
Ok – I’m being unreasonable. I’m nervous. Worried. I have a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I always have, whenever I’ve flown. I guess since 9/11 I’m even more so. I wish I could just blow it off and tell myself that we all have to go sometime, right?
I’m over here packing for the trip. I am actually looking forward to the vacation, quite a bit. It’s much needed and long over due. I’m being needlessly morbid and thinking to myself – – ‘what does one pack when heading toward their own demise?’
You think I’m kidding?
Am I alone in this? Maybe I need flight therapy?