There’s nothing like a trip on a plane to remind me how neurotic I am. I’m not a frequent flyer (what person on a teacher salary is?) but I’ve flown enough to not be able to tell you how many times I’ve flown. I’ve also flown enough to know that I don’t like it, and I’m not good at it. And usually when I buy a plane ticket, I am so excited about whatever trip I’m going on that I forget how much I hate flying…until I get to the airport. I don’t know if this is entirely because I’m neurotic as hell; I think it’s also because of my job. I spend at least 3 hours of each work day reading books where most of the details have some sort of deeper meaning. My inability to fly without imagining myself holding hands with the stranger across the aisle as we plummet to a fiery death of metal and jet-fuel is directly related to my constant interaction with literary devices. (And here’s another example of how reading can ruin my life). I start looking for a deeper meaning in all the details o