Or: I apologize in advance for this foul-mouthed entry.
Today Baby Wallace takes his first flight. We’re taking a short hop from Chicago to go see my mother in honor of her 50th birthday, and everything should be just fine. Unfortunately I have a raging case of this little thing called aerophobia.
*POOF*
“Hello zere.”
Hello there, Imaginary Freud!
“Und how may I be of zervice today?”
“Well, Dr. Imaginary Freud, I’m going on this plane trip, see, and it’s terrifying. I hate flying. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it.”
“Vell, vhat toolz do you hav to deal vis ze pressure?”
“Tools? My Real Psychiatrist gave me some severe mild medication to get through this flight and is going to recommend a behavioral therapist for long-term work.”
“Vell, vat’s the problem zen? Vhy am I here?”
“Because here’s my dilemma. I’m perfectly aware that flying is outrageously safe. That I’m in more danger of being hit by lightening twice than I am of dying in a plane crash. That I’d have more liklihood of winning the lottery. Planes are outrageously safe.”
“Yez?”
“But what it feels like… When I’m on a plane I’m absolutely 100% certain the plane is going to crash. Even as I’m chastizing myself for an idiot, I’m clutching on to the arm rests and trying not to vomit in fear.”
“Go on.”
“I feel like a goat that is walking in front of an alligator. Even though the alligator’s never attacked before, I still feel like I’m pushing my luck and one day the alligator’s going to get me. And now I’m walking in front of that alligator with my baby. Goats in front of an alligator. That’s how it is.”
“Mmmhmm. You realize in your analogy, ze alligator vould be actually an alligator-zchaped rock, yez? Zat allzough you perceive danger, none actually exzists?”
“Yeah. I get that. My baby and I wandering deliberatley in front of an alligator-shaped rock that I think is an alligator. Great. Anyhow, my instinct says to take the meds and check out for some of the flight so that I don’t freak out my kid or upset my husband. Flying is a reality for me, but I don’t have the skills yet to deal with it appropriately.”
“Zo, again, vhat’s ze problem?”
“Well, if the implausible happens and the plane does go down, I want my last acts to be looking at my husband and baby, not being drugged up to my eyeballs.”
“… I zee.”
“I had trouble sleeping last night because I’m so nervous.”
“Ah! Now vee are in my territory! Vhat did you dream about?”
“I dreamt I was a Japanese secret agent and then I was shooting a film about Japanese secret agents and then I flirted with Fez from That 70’s Show by unexpectedly kissing him on the cheek and he didn’t know that it was just in keeping with my character and so he asked me out to drinks and in the dream I wasn’t married so I thought ‘why not?’ and was planning on going with him and then I woke up.”
“..”
“..”
“I’m very zorry, I zimply can’t help you…
Veirdo.”
*POOF*
“Well SCREW YOU, IMAGINARY FREUD!”
Seriously, kids. If the unthinkable happens and my plane does go down this weekend and I die in a very Alanis-ironic way, I want you to remember some things:
Given a plane crash vs. terminal cancer, I’ll take the crash every time.
Tell my mom it was over really fast and painless. There was time for an adrenalline dump, holding hands, smiling at the baby, a quick prayer, then it’s over.
That Andy and I wanted to be cremated anyway.
And I would like, if the language doesn’t upset my mother too much, I would like me gravestone or urn marker or whatever to read, “I fucking told you so, you smug bastards”.
See you in a few days! Kiss kiss!
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