an airbus A320

I have tried repeatedly to squish the fear down inside me and ignore it. But I can't.

I have this consuming hatred of flying in planes.

It all starts when I go through security. I cannot do more than two things at once and HERE is THIS MAN and he is telling me--

A. "I need your photo i.d."
B. "And your boarding pass."
C. "Put your bag in this box,"
D. "Oh, and take out all electronic devices."
E. "And take off your shoes."
F. "Okay, now move forward."
G. "Wait, come back! We are going to have to dispose of this liquid because it is over 3 oz."

It makes me want to scream...

Don't you think it would make a wonderful board game? "No photo i.d.-- back to start!" "All liquids are under 3 oz. AND a quart sized Ziploc baggie-- MOVE 4 SPACES!" It could be a best seller...

Moving on from security.

I sit at the gate listening to music and nervously twisting my boarding pass. I am listening to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" (I have this ridiculous appreciation for songs about ships and sailing, no matter how old). It does nothing for my nerves. I wonder why. My boarding pass has now assumed a cloth-like texture and most of the printing is ruined. The gate attendant glares at me as I present it to him. He is supposed to have the simple job of scanning pieces of paper and it is apparently people like me that ruin his day.

Finally we taxi down the runway. I am sitting between my dad and my brother. The dialogue that ensues is reminiscent of those movies where the person has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.

"Don't worry, Ash," Dad says, "it's safer than driving."
"Most accidents happen at take-off or landing." Grant reminds me gleefully, "Would you like me to tell you what our chances of death are?"He is a pilot-in-training, so I can't refute him. But I can tell him to shut up. So I do.

Eventually, we reach cruising altitude. The stereotypical screaming baby awakens in the row behind me. My mother and several other matronly-looking women swap sympathetic smiles with the parents. Half of me wants to smile too, but is afraid it would look more like a grimace. The other half of me wonders if the baby would stop crying if I shoved it in an overhead luggage compartment and closed the door.

This thought occupies me until we begin our descent which I really prefer not to discuss at all. At this point the predominant thought in my mind becomes, "Get off the plane as soon as is possible."

And of course, baggage claim is just loads of fun-- after walking off with suitcases that aren't mine several ties and apologizing profusely to the very angry rightful owners I get my suitcase and laugh on my way out at all the people who still don't have theirs.

The End. Or it would be if I never had to fly again. But, oh the irony, I leave on the longest flight of my life at the end of next month. Dear heavens. Maybe I'll make cards for the TSA employees or something. We'll see. But it will certainly be interesting.