As passengers stand in line to board the plane (after they’ve all scurried like scared squirrels to have tickets checked, hurrying through the tunnel just to stand and wait), I stay behind.
I do not want to enter that metal tube until absolutely necessary.
I’m not afraid of the actual flying part. I understand the physics of how the plane’s engine boosts us up into the sky, the dynamics of keeping us up there, the mechanism of getting us, and the plane, down in one piece.
That’s the easy part. The difficulty, for me, is being squished in that flying tube with 200 other people, with nowhere to go. What if I decide, mid-flight, that I really don’t want to be up there? That in fact, I want to touch earth, now, and walk a mile or so to stretch my legs, or maybe find a burger joint and eat real food, or, even more possibly, go pee someplace more private than a 3 inch by 3 inch box with a suspiciously sticky floor and tiny sink full of used water and strands of hair.
What do I do then?
I hyperventilate. Sweat pours off my forehead and down my back. My skin gets itchy, my lungs get smaller, and my heart starts racing faster than the jet. My mouth opens so I can scream, “let me out!” but my brain takes over and demands, “shut up, Pam.”
Most times, my brain wins over. I grab my paperback and delve into the story, urging my thoughts to go there, into the characters’ setting, into their dilemmas and fears, so I can ignore mine.
But sometimes, my desire for freedom (read: my claustrophobia), wins.
Like the time my man and I meander off one large plane knowing we have a 3-hour wait for the next smaller one to reach our vacation destination, but are told we can rush to the gate and make an earlier flight instead. We’re elated – we can get to the beach, and a drink, even sooner!
But we’re the last ones on the plane, and the flight attendant points us to our seats – in the last row. Gamely, I follow my guy down the aisle, talking to myself all the way “you’ll be fine, just 30 minutes, suck it up.”
Until we sit down, the flight attendant starts her safety spiel, and I pop up like a broken jack-in-the-box (in this case, Pam-in-a-box) and literally run back up the aisle to freedom. I dimly hear my dear seatmate shout, “where are you going?” and the attendant yell, “but the door’s already closed.” I don’t care. I Am Getting Out of There.
As I pass Row 5, a passenger on the aisle grabs my arm softly and whispers, “it’s okay,” treating me like a wild horse, and she the horse whisperer. “I’ll switch,” she continues, urging me to take her seat while she trudges down down down the narrow aisle to sit next to my bemused mate.
Thus, not only do I make it to our vacation island, still married (to an understanding man), but my love for all humanity has tripled.
Nonetheless, every time my guy and I travel together, he holds my hand a bit too firmly as we enter the plane and sit in our (as-close-to-the-front-as-possible) seats. But there’s no need for him to hold tight.
I realize that my biggest fear now is not flying, and thus missing out on visiting enchanting people, like grandchildren, and exotic places, like New Jersey.
Currently my mantra as I enter a plane is:
“it’s the destination, not the journey!” (Apologies to Siddhartha)
11 thoughts on “Fear of (Not) Flying”
Panic attacks are not fun! I used to have them in meetings, just knowing I couldn’t run out scared me to pieces! Just think, if we didn’t have oceans and lakes, how easy it would be to drive to Hawaii, Rome, Paris, etc. and never be stuck on an airplane (and how long it would take!). However, I think drugs are in order here! Hubby will declare you as his carry-on luggage and wake you up at the DESTINATION!!! Valium???!!!!
Perhaps you’re right, although I don’t think I’d fit into the carry-on, a strong sedative could probably help… as long as I wake up in time to GET OFF THE PLANE!! Thanks for sharing about the office panic attacks – helps to know others experience the same horrible feeling…
I, on the other hand, detest the actual flying part. I’ll have to tell you about my experience landing in Reno two months ago…
No, Please! don’t tell me about your bad landing experience!! ACK.
Hope you’ll be landing smoothly in SFO one of these days…
I agree! Flying used to be a fun part of a trip, but now it gets harder and harder to sit still in that squished seat!! But it is a necessary “evil” when going to visit those wonderful people and fabulous places!! Thanks for sharing!!!!
So true, when flying was served as a pleasure, with more room and more smiles all around, it wasn’t quite as hard to not run out the (closed) door.
Airplanes and MRI tunnels, they have the same effect on me, way too little room. Funny how closing my eyes makes things more spacious than having them open, go figure. Thanks for another good blog!
MRI’s may be even worse, with the bangbangbangbang as you close your eyes and try to imagine that you’re on a beach with an umbrella drink.
All I can say to your end remarks, Pam, is, sorry, I still believe in the journey! But I sure feel for you while walking the “blue mile.” You didn’t mention that truly horrible air that you (we) have to breath while inside – that’s the worst part for me.
I know, I thought of that after I posted – how about when you’re sitting in your tiny seat trying to imagine yourself anywhere else and the person behind you coughs…and coughs…and coughs. and you then realize, you’re going home not just with memories, but a cold too….
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