(As this post goes live, I am on a TEN HOUR plane ride to Hawaii. I know, I know, we don't feel sorry for you, Sherri. Well, you shouldn't. You should feel sorry for my husband, and probably everyone else on the plane.)
I am straight up Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids when I fly.
I used to LOVE to fly. I lived for going to the airport, and seeing other parts of the country/world. I would read magazines, books, and eat ALL THE FREE SNACKS. (That part really hasn’t changed.)
Once, when we were newly married, we had a flight where we flew through turbulence the entire time. And not the little bumps, but like the big ones--you know, where people (other than me) are shrieking and grabbing their seats. During the entire flight, the flight attendants were never allowed out of their seats. Then, we circled the Atlanta airport for 3 hours, because there was a very obnoxious storm that would not MOVE ALONG, FRANCIS.
There was a man sitting across from me, and when he saw my obvious terror, he quickly informed me that he had been in a plane where lightening actually went through the cabin and blew his big toe off. (I'm sorry. Did I look as if I could handle hearing your horrible story?)
At this point, I begin death gripping the seats, praying out loud, and just generally freaking the heck out of the little boy next to me. He even tried to give me his playstation. That tells you a lot right there.
John was all, babe you’re fine. This is nothing! It’s JUST DRIVING DOWN A BUMPY ROAD.
And I was all, OH YEAH. I forgot that you can fall 35,000 feet out of the air while driving your CAR.
(I get sassy when I’m nervous).
Anyway, after we made it down, John says, actually I didn’t want to tell you this, but that was really bad. I was worried.
OH. MY. WORD. Never listening to you again, husband.
These days, when I fly, I usually start by freaking out and checking turbulence maps for a week before the flight. Next, I snap everyone’s head off the day we leave, because, I am FREAKING THE EFF OUT. And I can’t be held responsible. (Maybe I should go to the mall on those days).
We get to the airport, and I become NERVOUSLY CHATTY CATHY. Like, making ridiculous jokes to the lady at the check in counter about forgetting our passports at home. She is never amused.
Then, when my carry-on inevitably gets flagged for the sheer amount of hair products, I become Nervously Chatty again.
Which really just enhances my general creeper vibe, and usually earns me a body search.
We finally get to the gate, and I tell John to go ask for a turbulence report from the gate people. He refuses, and asks me to stop embarrassing him. I finally question the flight attendants myself as we board the plane, and typically, they do NOT GIVE ME THE ANSWER I NEED TO HEAR. At which point, I become the weird lady who’s talking about seeing a woman in colonial garb on the wing, and screaming to get off the plane.
(Disclaimer: I blame a LOT of this behavior on the Xanax. It is my bestie when I have to fly, and it can mess. me. up. On one long trip in recent years, I was certain it wasn’t working. So I took another. And then, John was all, you’re fine. You don’t need another. At which point, I TOOK ANOTHER. Because I don’t have a lot of confidence in someone who tells me a turbulent flight is just like a bumpy road. At which point, I become “worse than a toddler,” a chronic seat kicker, and possibly a general annoyance to the whole flight. I may or may not have fallen asleep ON MY DINNER that night.)
It’s fun to fly with me.