Monte's work is sending him to Las Vegas in April, and I'm going with him. It will be one full week without the kids, in warm sunny Las Vegas in a hotel off the strip (that's a plus for me) and because he is attending a seminar, my days will be my own. I can do anything or nothing, as I please, and then at night I can spend time with my husband seeing the town. Or not, as we please. The description of this vacation, if I can spill SAHM secrets, is every wife and mother's dream. Really. No kids, part time husband, and an on demand pool? Think of it. I can watch anything I want on TV. Throw in a little shopping or something done at the spa, and there isn't anything a human female with children and a husband would not do to go on a vacation like this.
There's just one problem.
I have, over the last decade or so, developed a very real fear of flying. Not just a fear, but a gripping dread where I imagine this giant steel horizontal skyscraper falling out of the sky on a daily basis leading up to the actual event. There are several reasons for my relatively new phobia. 1. A little over 11 years ago, I became a mother. Suddenly, dying was a bigger deal, because I had this little baby bird to protect and partially ruin as I clumsily attempted to raise it. 2. The plane, as I have mentioned, is bigger than some homes I've seen, and made of some really heavy stuff. Like metal. Then, it's filled with fat lazy Americans and their ridiculous luggage who won't even be fully on board before they demand snacks, so a bunch of those are packed on as well. I'm just saying, an object that weighs the same as the Statue of Liberty really shouldn't remain airborne. She doesn't. And don't get me started on the laws of aerodynamics, because I have the law of gravity on my side, and basically, my law beats the crap out of whatever you throw at it. Or drop on it.
I know worry doesn't change the outcome of an event, and only compromises the health and well being of the worrier, but it just seems like I'm the only one who has noticed planes are flying coffins of death. Monte says car crashes occur everyday, but it doesn't stop me from loading up in my van and heading off to spend a bunch of money at Sam's. And he's right. On both counts. And perhaps if I flew everyday, and I had to fly or not shop at Sam's, I would become desensitized to the obvious risk of being up in the sky with no ground under me. Logic dictates that I must be more afraid of planes than cars, even though the risks are similar, because I only get on them once every couple of years or so. And even though I feel this way, it hasn't stopped me from buying my ticket or visiting other "plane only" destinations over the years. Really, all it does is make the three weeks leading up to the trip, psychologically draining. But I'd like to say one thing in my defense. If I die driving my car, it's because I screwed up. Who is this guy in a white faux military shirt working on six hours of sleep and eight cups of coffee, anyway? And how do I know the mechanic working on my plane isn't going through a painful divorce and has lost his attention to detail or will to do a good job? And what about the parts manufacturer? I mean really!!
Crap, that reminds me, I have got to update my Will, which should probably reflect all the children and debt I currently have, and make sure I still like the people I leave them, and it, to.
Details details.
