Flying in an airplane is to me as water is to cats. This is ironic because as I write this, I’m sitting on a plane bound for New Zealand, which—for those of you who are as geographically impaired as I was when I bought the plane ticket—is a 13-and-a-half-hour flight across the Pacific Ocean.
Not being much of a cat person myself, I guess it’s not fair to compare their relationship with water to mine with planes. Personally, flying in an aircraft is not only an odious ordeal in itself, but it terrifies me in a way I’m not certain I’ve even fully grasped yet.
First and foremost, I think my biggest problem with planes is the sheer ridiculousness of it. Will some Pratt students please explain to me how a Boeing 777 is able to sail through the air as if it doesn’t have a care in the world? This thing is heavy. And there are several rather rotund people surrounding me at the moment whom I know are not helping the weight situation.
I was just reminded of another reason why I strongly dislike (hate is a strong word, you know) air travel by a small human a couple of rows in front of me. Parents, please don’t take your children on a 13-hour flight. Ever. Or please at least put them out. I have some extra (and totally legal) sleeping meds I’d be willing to share.
The problem with my hatred (whoops) of flying is my equal and opposite love of traveling. I want nothing more than to see the world and even get paid for it, if such a fantasy does exist. Employers: I’m ready when you are.
Harry Potter and gang really had it right when they learned how to apparate. I really should have jumped on that when I had the chance.
Basically, in my humble opinion, planes are the very bottom of the toilet-bowl worst. It is probably bad luck to be saying that while I’m currently sitting on an airplane that is floating precariously in the air. Hold on while I go find some wood to knock on.
Okay I’m back, but wouldn’t you know it, there is absolutely no wood on this thing. But seriously, planes suck. I don’t like the way they shake and tremble in the air, the way they make strange noises that I KNOW mean the engine is failing and we’re all about to die, the way babies possessing moods and voice boxes are allowed on board, the way a thousand people are smushed next to each other breathing the same sickly air that a man just projected into the air ducts via his uncovered sneeze, and especially the way that at any second this mighty machine can (and probably will) plummet to the earth below, or in this case, into the Pacific Ocean.
You might be calling me dramatic right about now. You might be putting your psych major to good use and diagnosing me with control issues and a chronic fear of dying. Well congratulations, you and my dad would really get along.
In all honesty, I’m pretty certain I do indeed have control issues. I feel much safer behind the wheel of a car than in the claustrophobic cabin of an aircraft. And don’t even think about repeating that old saying about planes being safer than cars. It’s a LIE! LIES, I TELL YOU!
What flying has taught me in a tortured sort of way is that sometimes, in order to get a great reward, you have to bite the bullet and endure some sort of necessary evil such as studying for hours for an exam, waking up at the crack of dawn for work, or facing your very worst prayer-inducing fear for a chance at adventure. New Zealand: You better be worth this.
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