Essay: My Plans for this Thursday
(Blogged in June 2016)
I am listening to my takeoff song. It helps to have routines.
Flying causes me unspeakable terror.
I maintain a mental list of strategies for escaping planes. I heard that airlines can fine you the cost of an emergency landing, particularly if you’ve caused a criminal disruption. So you gotta do it between boarding and taxi. I plan on a loud, dramatic panic attack. I will wheeze and gasp for air, and perhaps the crew and fellow passengers will assume I am having an asthma attack or some other legitimate health crisis. But the power of shame is real, my fear of embarrassment too strong. I stay put.
The next song on the playlist is Titanium, because I am brave.
I’ve snapped my neck pillow closed at the trachea, and then unsnapped it again. It’s black and plush on one side with “TRAVEL QUEEN” and the image of a crown embroidered in hot pink. My cutoff leggings and jersey dress combine comfort with the appearance of trying, in case my body is recovered from the ocean with my clothing miraculously intact.
Ding. I listen in for further noise, as I’ve read that a “triple high low chime” signals imminent danger. But this one just means 10,000 feet. Height is safety.
Every plane crash is an anomaly, but most happen during descent, with initial climb coming in second. I am mindful of the word “terrorism” hovering on the edges of my conscious awareness. I am having a thought. Hello thought. I note and adjust my body posture. All suggestions from my anxiety therapist, $165 per session. Xanax is about 50 cents a pill.
Internet message boards have some of the best suggestions, and they’re free.
Repeat a mantra. “By far the most likely outcome is I arrive safely at my destination.” Learn about the science behind flying. Turbulence is perfectly normal. Think of the aircraft as suspended in jello. Planes don’t just fall out of the sky. Except Germanwings 9525. Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain is in my headphones. Rain, plane. Plummeting fireball.
I sit in the window seat on the left side of the cabin, somewhere between rows 10 and 13. Again, routines. Southwest is my airline of choice, with a fleet of 722 Boeing 737s, safety in uniformity. I purchased Cheez Its Snack Mix at the newsstand closest my gate, a tabloid magazine and a diet coke. My fingers are covered in cheese powder. The captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign.
Beverage service means nothing is wrong, according to Dr. O’Brien. I think that is an unhelpful thing to say to an aviophobe, but I cling to it anyway. I ask for a cup of ice for my soda. I use the restroom approximately 1 time per hour. I set my full cup on the tray table in front of me, noticing how the liquid remains level. How little the slight bumps disturb its surface.
My last incident was a year and a half ago, on my flight home from Christmas vacation. I received a fortune cookie at dinner, right before we left for the airport. “Live, think and act for today. Tomorrow may be too late.”
I knew that it was over. Taylor Swift mocked me on the car radio. “It’s gonna go down in flames,” she warned. Only sheer will got me on that plane. I cried behind my sunglasses while I stepped onto the jet bridge.
Remember how sure you were?
Philip K. Dick said, “I guess that’s the story of life: what you most fear never happens, but what you most yearn for never happens either. This is the difference between life and fiction.”
It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still waiting.
Ding. We’ve begun our final descent. The pilot says it’s a sunny day in Tampa, with a high of 85.
