I hate to fly.
There, I said it.
I love to travel, but I hate to fly. Thus, flying is a necessary evil. I took my job because I love to travel. But I still hate to fly. Hate. To. Fly. To sum up: HATE.
Typically, I can stomach the bigger jets. Or, just, you know, ANY jet. But there ain’t many jets that will take you to Syracuse, y’all.
Behold – the Turbo Prop.
Just the word “prop” is enough to invoke fear in the heart of this jittery air traveler. We used “props” in my high school musical performances (shut up.). We totally used fake suitcases that no one cared about for one particularly rollicking song on a train in The Music Man. So, as my example flawlessly illustrates, prop = fake.
The Prop plane that just pulled into Gate F 20 at Philadelphia International to transport me to Syracuse has two propellers. Two. Propellers. It is too tiny to warrant a jet way, so any minute now I will be shuffled out a doorway, placed onto the tarmac, and begin trekking to the door of the plane. There is always a lovely flight attendant on hand to welcome me aboard. Typically she says, “Sit anywhere after Row 4.” Yes, my 134-pound ass needs to move to the back to level out. The. Weight. Of. The. Plane.
It just puts my soul at ease.
Driving on I-76 to the airport this morning, I hold J’s hand firmly in mine. We don’t say much at 5:55 AM, but for once I am not grumpy. It’s a nice change. I am, however, acutely anxious. We listen to the new Ray LaMontagne CD and my eyes dart from side to side. “Pretty foggy this morning,” I start.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with how planes take off. They don’t take off based on what pilots can see.”
“Then how come planes sometimes can’t land in a fog?”
J says nothing.
The irony is I have been welcomed into a family of flight-lovers. J’s dad is a commercial airline pilot. Last week, he flew to Bangkok and possibly Uzbekistan. I know! J also loooooooovvvveeess to be airborne and has taken flight lessons; even flown a plane or two (he’s badass, ladies). So naturally, I expect J’s dad to assuage all of my in-flight fears. At dinner last night, I bemoaned the prop plane trips I frequently take.
“Well, the prop plane is really like any jet,” Dad of J assures me. “It’s just… Hardy.”
And then later, in flight…
They actually just canceled the beverage service on my tiny “plane” - the one beacon of light, the single ray of hope – as “it will be quite bumpy,” and they don’t want the lovely flight attendant to be injured while serving me my diet coke and miniature bag of pretzels.
Save my Jeebus!
And back on earth…
I live to write another post. Do you think my general practitioner prescribes valium?