I’m furiously working away creating my online course, Think Like A Publicist, an am getting ready to fly to Georgia to visit my brother and sister-in-law. There are a ton of thunder and lightening storms, which means the flight—and probably the landing—will be bumpy. Because I have a terrible fear of flying, I’m not looking forward to this. My mom is already there, so I texted her asking how her flight was.
Me: How was your flight?
Mom: They said it was going to be bumpy, so I took a pill. It wasn’t that bad.
Me: Why was it going to be bumpy? The storms?
Mom: I can’t remember why. And I can’t remember if there was any turbulence.
Me: Um, you just got off the plane. What kind of pill did you take?
Mom: One that made me content.
Of course my anxiety has already started. I seriously consider driving. This sounds awesome because I could pack as much as I want, not have to worry about 4 oz toiletries and best of all not be 30,000 feet about ground. But I’ve driven across country and it’s exhausting and it should really be done with a buddy, not alone. And I would be gone much longer than I should be. And I remind myself this is why I have a prescription for Xanax. It’s the only time I use it and it’s because of the terror-filled, straight-out-of-a-movie flight to Burbank I had in 2007.
I had the usual pre-flight anxiety filled-days leading up to the trip.”I don’t really need to go on this business trip. I can cancel my flight and drive instead.” It didn’t help that I had not been on a plane in a couple of years, and that my friends and family were teasing me mercilessly. It also didn’t help that I would be flying alone, without Hubby.
I was doing the whole “It will be OK…you’ll be fine…isn’t this fun?” When that didn’t work, I went to the bar in the terminal and had a beer. At 10 AM. My brother was in boot camp in the Army at the time, so I thought it would be a good distraction to write him a letter talking about how terrified I was.
As I boarded the plane, I looked for the friendliest person to sit next to (aka someone who looked calm and wasn’t afraid of flying). I ended up next to a young man in his early 30s, who was a Republican from LA who I’ll call Plane Boy.
Me: They have those down there?
Plane Boy: I think I’m the only one.
The first part of the flight wasn’t bad. We talked about our careers, what he thought of LA, etc. When we started to hit some rough turbulence, I asked if I could hold on to his arm. He indulged my request. When the plane started taking some steep drops, I was halfway in his lap. With my face buried in his expensive, suede jacket, I said, “I know I should be humiliated, hanging on to you like this, but I’m too terrified.” He tried to reassure me by nervously patting my leg and reminding me how many celebrities fly every day.
When the plane continued to drop, and the wings were going up and down like a Teeter Totter, people started screaming and the flight attendants were told to take to their seats. Plane Boy had now lost his cool, and his reassuring patting turned into a vice grip.
Plane Boy (with terror in his voice): Oh my God! Don’t look out of the window!
Me (between sobs): There’s no fucking way I’m looking out there!
Plane Boy (still terrified): Why isn’t the pilot talking to us?!
Me (still sobbing): Please God…please God…
Plane Boy (more terrified): I mean…I just don’t understand. Why isn’t the pilot talking to us?! What’s going on?!
This went on for the last half of the flight, with the landing being the worst of it. When we did finally land, there was no cheery voice over the speaker that said, “Welcome to Burbank. The temperature is…” Instead, one flight attendant said, “Well…we landed.”
The pilot never did say anything.
As my shaky-ass legs made their way to the baggage claim, Plane Boy came over to talk to me.
Plane Boy: So…I might need some marketing advice. Maybe I’ll call you.
Awkward.
Me (lying): I don’t have any cards on me.
Plane Boy: Oh…okay. Well…it was nice meeting you.
Awkwarder.
Me: Yeah…you too. And thanks for pussy-ing out on me.
I was too nice to say the last part.
Despite that experience, I’ve never NOT gotten on a plane. Of course I hate flying, of course it makes me miserable, but there’s a sliver of logic left in me that knows if I let this fear take over, I’ll be missing out. On my life.
I would have missed out on all of my brother’s military graduations. I would have missed out on the weekend I spent with my sister-in-law planning their wedding while my brother was deployed. I would have missed out on their actual wedding, which took place in an historic home near Atlanta with only parents and siblings in attendance. I would have missed out being on a panel for an online marketing conference that took place in stunning Asheville, North Carolina, where I had the time of my life, learned a shitload and made some life-long friends.
So I always get on the plane. ALWAYS. Because at the end of that bumpy ass ride, I know there’s something pretty spectacular waiting for me.
