I travel a lot. You already know this though, right? In fact, this blog post is being written from 32,000 feet in the sky as I sit surrounded by people who have very bothersome coughs.
(Is it too much to ask for you to hack into your sleeve as the CDC has indicated? Pfft.)
Anyway.
I’ve realized over the course of two years, the better part of which were spent up in the air (sadly not with George Clooney) that I have developed a certain level of phobia about my trips. It all started with not wearing my engagement ring when I fly, you know, in case the plane crashes…it would be a shame to waste such a pretty bauble. The one time I did wear it? Emergency landing because of an indication of smoke (read FIRE) in the cargo area complete with military helicopters surrounding us, and a descent from 30,000 feet to the ground in 8 minutes flat where we were greeted by fire trucks, ambulances and scary little men in hazmat suits. I kid you not. Also, most of the senior management of my company at the time was on the plane along with Tommy Lee (the Tommy Lee of Pamela Anderson fame) which apparently is not a good combination for safe travels.
But I digress.
Every since then, I’ve adhered to not wearing my ring but have also added frequently to the things that must happen in order for me to get home safely. In short order, here they are:
• You must never change your seat, even if it’s the middle one on a long flight, for a window or an aisle upgrade. If first class comes along? That’s a different story. God would never ruin my fun in first class with a stupid thing like engine failure.
• The children must each give me one stuffed animal to take along with me for the journey. These sweet little animals would look really bad on a news reel should anything unfortunate happen, also, they make lovely hotel room decorations.
• I must call my husband as soon as I am seated to let him know I was responsible enough to get myself on the plane and not miss boarding by doing something stupid like having one glass of wine too many at the bar one gate down. I mean, not that that has ever happened.
• I must also tell my husband what flight I am on and then give a chipper little shout out of “Track me!” because God would never let something happen to the plane as he sits for hours watching it make it’s way across the map on his tiny computer screen because I’m totally sure that’s what he does for hours while I fly, right honey?
• I will not speak to you unless you look very young or very nervous, or a combination of the two. If you are the latter, I will feel it’s my duty to make sure you don’t get nervous and freak out on me…because if I keep you safe and calm, we can all avoid the hassel of those pesky security guards boarding the plane to take you off and delaying me getting to my destination.
• I rarely use my iPod even though said husband has carefully loaded it with movies I love. Why? Because someone on this plane has to be listening for suspicious knocks or keeping an eye on anyone shady looking, that’s why. I am all about protecting my fellow travelers.
• And here’s the main one. The minute the plane touches down wherever it is I’m going, I have to say to myself “Halfway Home”. I honestly have no idea where this one came from but the one time I said it out loud, the person sitting next to me refused to make eye contact with me as we taxied to the gate. I didn’t blame him.
One of my other rules has always been to not blog about my superstitions about flying on a airplane for fear of creating a “situation” for myself. As I type this, we have just hit a ridiculous amount of turbulence and the captain has ordered everyone back to their seats for the duration of the flight.
Signing off from seat 30E somewhere above Utah….
TSM
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