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 of my flight experience. Since most good literature is tragic (Nicholas Sparks being an exception), I look for symbols that might foreshadow the harrowing experience that awaits me on the other side of the jetway.
My analysis usually begins at airport security. I subconsciously start sizing up the people around me and look for anything weird: no carry-on luggage, too much carry-on luggage, shifty eyes. Last weekend I was very suspicious of the guy in front of me who had a cordless drill in his carry-on. (Seriously?) He seemed so shocked when he wasn’t allowed to take it on the plane with him. I didn’t bring my knitting needles or tweezers because I thought they would be confiscated and I would be put on a no-fly list, and this idiot brings a power tool? I watched him carefully as we walked through the terminal and was relieved when he stopped a few gates before mine.
Once I get settled in at the gate, I start looking over my boarding pass to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid like go to the wrong terminal…or airport. Then I subconsciously start looking for weird connections and coincidences between the numbers on my boarding pass, or seat assignment. Since numbers already baffle me, this is especially dangerous. On Tuesday, I was on flight 1218 that was supposed to arrive at 12:18. (In any fictional novel, this detail would probably be significant). I was completely panicked and got pissed off that my last meal would be the stale $5.00 bagel with a schmear of watery cream cheese that I squeezed out of a packet, washed down with a $4.00 cup of crappy coffee. If I had known that my plane was probably going to crash because of some menacing (and completely insignificant) numeric pattern, I would have splurged and bought the $12.00 Xtreme omelet sandwich. Regularity and propriety be damned in the face of impending doom! When I boarded the plane, my seat assignment had changed. Fortunately, it was row 19. If it had been 12 or 18, I would have sold some plasma and an egg or two and then rented a car to drive myself home.
As we board, I look around at my plane companions who could very well be the last people I ever see alive. I double check to make sure that the cordless drill guy is in another plane creeping out other people. I sit down and try to look as busy as possible so my plane neighbor won’t try to make small-talk. (“So, business or pleasure?” “Are you headed home or picking up a connection?”) If they talk to me for more than 20 seconds, I’ll end up telling them how sure I am that the plane is a vehicle of death and that I won’t live to see another bottle of shampoo larger than 3 oz. (They’ll also be able to smell that I maybe drank at least 2 rum and cokes at the airport bar to calm my nerves).
Taxiing wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the demonstration on how to use all the safety features of the plane…which will be pretty null and void when Flight 1218 crashes at 12:18 and my seat that can also act as a floatation device is incinerated. Because of Murphy’s Law and my strange and emphatic belief in irony, I usually pay attention while looking like I’m not paying attention. I’ve noticed that most people on planes ignore this presentation (unless the flight attendant is super hot). It’s probably because they’ve seen it a million times before or they also realize its futility. But I wonder if it could also be because this is the moment that everyone on the plane is reminded that there is always a chance (no matter how small) that the plane could, in fact, go down. Either way, I refuse to get cocky; I’ve taught Oedipus Rex too many times to be unaware of the fatal consequences of arrogance and invincibility…especially at 30,000 feet.
Since I’m afraid of my boarding pass, you can only imagine how much anxiety the act of taking off and landing creates. Taking off is the worst by far. There are those few moments where you feel the plane lifting and your body says “Whoa, whoa, whoa. This isn’t okay.” (I’ve also learned that my stomach is apparently more stubborn then the rest of my body because every time I take off I manage to leave it on the runway…for the entire flight). I watch as we climb and after about 5 seconds I realize that we’ve reached a height where from that moment on if the plane did go down, nothing that they showed us in the safety presentation would be helpful; it would simply distract us in the terrifying space between airplane and ground.
After taking off, I spend most of my time looking for strange sounds and bounces that signify engine or electrical failure…or the moment when the entire wing snaps in half…or when the cordless drill guy’s brother busts out the circular saw that he had in his carry-on which will be followed by something similar to the plot of a movie starring Samuel L, Keanu, or Nicolas Cage. Thanks to my subconscious dependence on literary devices, a crying baby becomes a lethal foreshadow because they can sense the impending doom before the rest of us can. When the flight attendants are late with the drink cart, it’s obviously because they are in the cock-pit helping the captain figure out the best way to announce to the plane that they only have minutes to live. (Duh…it’s so obvi).
I alternate between these thoughts and screaming “This is not natural!” inside of my head about once every five minutes.
When I tell people about my plane problems, I get the same answer every time. “Flying is the safest way to travel. You’re more likely to have a car crash or get hurt walking down the street.” But for someone like me who is slightly (possibly moderately) paranoid, and addicted to literary devices, foreshadow, and irony, this logical reasoning just doesn’t cut it. Besides, how many times have you heard about a person who fell while walking down the street who then burst into flames? I think next time I’ll just have to slip a few Benadryl into those rum and cokes.
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 of my flight experience. Since most good literature is tragic (Nicholas Sparks being an exception), I look for symbols that might foreshadow the harrowing experience that awaits me on the other side of the jetway.
My analysis usually begins at airport security. I subconsciously start sizing up the people around me and look for anything weird: no carry-on luggage, too much carry-on luggage, shifty eyes. Last weekend I was very suspicious of the guy in front of me who had a cordless drill in his carry-on. (Seriously?) He seemed so shocked when he wasn’t allowed to take it on the plane with him. I didn’t bring my knitting needles or tweezers because I thought they would be confiscated and I would be put on a no-fly list, and this idiot brings a power tool? I watched him carefully as we walked through the terminal and was relieved when he stopped a few gates before mine.
Once I get settled in at the gate, I start looking over my boarding pass to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid like go to the wrong terminal…or airport. Then I subconsciously start looking for weird connections and coincidences between the numbers on my boarding pass, or seat assignment. Since numbers already baffle me, this is especially dangerous. On Tuesday, I was on flight 1218 that was supposed to arrive at 12:18. (In any fictional novel, this detail would probably be significant). I was completely panicked and got pissed off that my last meal would be the stale $5.00 bagel with a schmear of watery cream cheese that I squeezed out of a packet, washed down with a $4.00 cup of crappy coffee. If I had known that my plane was probably going to crash because of some menacing (and completely insignificant) numeric pattern, I would have splurged and bought the $12.00 Xtreme omelet sandwich. Regularity and propriety be damned in the face of impending doom! When I boarded the plane, my seat assignment had changed. Fortunately, it was row 19. If it had been 12 or 18, I would have sold some plasma and an egg or two and then rented a car to drive myself home.
As we board, I look around at my plane companions who could very well be the last people I ever see alive. I double check to make sure that the cordless drill guy is in another plane creeping out other people. I sit down and try to look as busy as possible so my plane neighbor won’t try to make small-talk. (“So, business or pleasure?” “Are you headed home or picking up a connection?”) If they talk to me for more than 20 seconds, I’ll end up telling them how sure I am that the plane is a vehicle of death and that I won’t live to see another bottle of shampoo larger than 3 oz. (They’ll also be able to smell that I maybe drank at least 2 rum and cokes at the airport bar to calm my nerves).
Taxiing wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the demonstration on how to use all the safety features of the plane…which will be pretty null and void when Flight 1218 crashes at 12:18 and my seat that can also act as a floatation device is incinerated. Because of Murphy’s Law and my strange and emphatic belief in irony, I usually pay attention while looking like I’m not paying attention. I’ve noticed that most people on planes ignore this presentation (unless the flight attendant is super hot). It’s probably because they’ve seen it a million times before or they also realize its futility. But I wonder if it could also be because this is the moment that everyone on the plane is reminded that there is always a chance (no matter how small) that the plane could, in fact, go down. Either way, I refuse to get cocky; I’ve taught Oedipus Rex too many times to be unaware of the fatal consequences of arrogance and invincibility…especially at 30,000 feet.
Since I’m afraid of my boarding pass, you can only imagine how much anxiety the act of taking off and landing creates. Taking off is the worst by far. There are those few moments where you feel the plane lifting and your body says “Whoa, whoa, whoa. This isn’t okay.” (I’ve also learned that my stomach is apparently more stubborn then the rest of my body because every time I take off I manage to leave it on the runway…for the entire flight). I watch as we climb and after about 5 seconds I realize that we’ve reached a height where from that moment on if the plane did go down, nothing that they showed us in the safety presentation would be helpful; it would simply distract us in the terrifying space between airplane and ground.
After taking off, I spend most of my time looking for strange sounds and bounces that signify engine or electrical failure…or the moment when the entire wing snaps in half…or when the cordless drill guy’s brother busts out the circular saw that he had in his carry-on which will be followed by something similar to the plot of a movie starring Samuel L, Keanu, or Nicolas Cage. Thanks to my subconscious dependence on literary devices, a crying baby becomes a lethal foreshadow because they can sense the impending doom before the rest of us can. When the flight attendants are late with the drink cart, it’s obviously because they are in the cock-pit helping the captain figure out the best way to announce to the plane that they only have minutes to live. (Duh…it’s so obvi).
I alternate between these thoughts and screaming “This is not natural!” inside of my head about once every five minutes.
When I tell people about my plane problems, I get the same answer every time. “Flying is the safest way to travel. You’re more likely to have a car crash or get hurt walking down the street.” But for someone like me who is slightly (possibly moderately) paranoid, and addicted to literary devices, foreshadow, and irony, this logical reasoning just doesn’t cut it. Besides, how many times have you heard about a person who fell while walking down the street who then burst into flames? I think next time I’ll just have to slip a few Benadryl into those rum and cokes.
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