FringeMan has a real fear of flying. According to him, it’s not flying that is the problem, it’s plummeting through the air at 500 miles per hour for a full eight minutes before crashing and burning.
That’s the problem he has with flying.
He somehow thinks that last eight minutes will feel like eighty years of sheer terror. Now, while I will admit that my imagination can come up with a few bizarre scenarios as I’m soaring through the sky, his irrational fear of flying is really not justified.
If my own fear of air travel were measured against the number of car accidents I’ve witnessed right outside our front door, I’d take a plane to the supermarket. FringeMan does not agree. He’d drive to Europe if it were possible. Truth be told, he’d probably take a ship to Europe before getting on a Trans-Atlantic flight.
I would be sightseeing on the other side of the world waiting for him to arrive with scurvy.
When he finished school in Florida, he took my son and drove all the way to Maine. I took my daughter and flew to Atlanta for a visit and met him two weeks later at the airport in Maine.
I’m just not a good car traveler. The crusted drool on my shoulder from sleeping for eight hours on the side window doesn’t look good when you arrive someplace. Let’s not even discuss the deep-set red gouge in my face from the seatbelt.
Recent flight reports freak FringeMan out. He may never fly again.
There was the pilot who landed his plane in the Hudson River, the mysterious disappearing flight between Brazil and Paris, the emergency landing on a road outside of Atlanta and let’s not forget all the special documentaries on air travel…ya, he’ll never fly again.
Our first flight as a couple was from Maine to Atlanta. I was pregnant with my son and we were going to visit my family for Thanksgiving. We left Maine in the ice and snow and our plane ascended at what seemed to be a 90 degree angle. Since FringeMan was on the fast track to becoming a preacher, boarding this plane while inebriated was out of the question. He could have been professionally medicated, something I would force before our next flight; however, he never made it to the doctors.
He’s got issues, but I love him.
Seriously, I didn’t think he would make the flight alive. The rest of the people on that plane were about to land in one piece, but FringeMan was spontaneously combusting right before my eyes.
I hate to see what would happen to him if he’d been on my flight to Florida several years ago. We had just taken off and were settling comfortably into our seats when we crashed in mid-air. I saw a pair of teeth racing past my left eye as my body was flung forward and my face lodged in the seat in front of me. The poor granny sitting beside me couldn’t keep hold of all her parts.
As I plucked my eyelashes from the fabric of the seat cushion, the concerned man to my right says, “Are you alright?”
Not one of my best moments, but I was certainly doing better than granny who would not get to eat her in-flight pretzels.
Turns out we hit a flock of birds. I never knew birds could cause so much damage. Amid the smell of burning goose, similar to Christmas dinner at the Chrachits, the pilot announced we were making an emergency landing because the birds had damaged one of those ginormous engines.
We were none the worse for the wear and granny finally found her teeth, but we did need a new plane.
Ok, so granny never really lost her teeth, but I thought they were about to go any second…trust me!
Although I need to keep my imagination in check while in flight, I don’t share my husband’s terror. There’s only one flight I wouldn’t board. That’s the flight my mother is on. Before you judge me for being harsh, she has problems EVERT TIME she flies.
I’ll make a public service announcement after she purchases her next ticket.
Maybe she’ll share her dreadful air stories someday.