For the first time in several years, I’m taking to the air this weekend.
Whenever possible, I avoid flying. Statistically speaking, it’s a safer method of travel than driving a car, but don’t try telling me that at 37,000 feet when I’m losing a battle with turbulence and vomiting into a paper bag.
The first time I flew – from Buffalo to Chicago to a cross country meet – featured the anticipated result. Chicago lived up to its windy reputation, the plane shook violently and I got sick. My college friends still bring it up when we get together. It was quite an amusing experience for them, apparently. On that particular trip’s following flights, I had far fewer people lining up to sit next to me.
This time, my fiancee has no choice but to sit next to me on all four of our weekend flights; we purchased seats next to each other.
Thankfully, we’re already engaged. I could get sick in the air – or quiver and scream like a small child – and she’s stuck with me both in the air and on the ground.
When we arrive in Portland, Maine, I’m certain we’ll have a fantastic time. We’ve been looking forward to visiting the city for months.
But, as our first flight inches closer, I think of my car remaining in my driveway and the helpless feeling of strapping myself into an airplane as a stranger navigates us through the northeastern skies.