Nothing says relaxation like looking at the remains of an inbred malaria victim with club feet and a cleft pallet. That's right, I'm off to see King Tut! Thursday, after dropping the kids at school, packing a bag and getting myself to the airport, I'll get on a plane and fly down to San Francisco for the weekend. Not only am I getting a few days away from the rigors of parenting (though I'll be abandoning my poor husband to pick up that slack solo) I'll be spending some quality time with my sister and my best friend. Mr. Dog will be the first to point out that I am leaving him behind, having conveniently scheduled the trip for a weekend which my parents were unavailable to watch the kids making it impossible for him to come along, but that was not intentional. I mean, what were the chances that the one weekend that worked for both Kathleen and me was also the weekend my parents planned to be in San Francisco? Really? What were the odds? So like the bad wife I am, I'm leaving him to tend to the yard apes while I am off gallivanting in my favorite city.
The problem is that I hate flying. Yes, I've mentioned this before, but I think this fear has only increased since I had children. Now, instead of simply obsessing about leaving my husband and family behind, mourning the loss of the wittiest, smartest, most charming person they have ever known, I have to consider the fate of my children. What happens to them if my plane goes down? Who will make sure they comb their hair? Who will kiss their tears when they scrape their knee? Who will obsess over their outfits and make sure their bedding is both snuggly warm and appropriately adorable? And yes, I really worry about these things. Sure, logically I know I am more likely to die driving to work every day, but somehow that seem so much less of an issue than climbing into a giant metal tube and being shot into the sky. I think it is because I lack control over the circumstances of my flight. I am completely dependent on the skills of others to ensure my safe arrival. And while it is unlikely that I will drop out of the sky, the experience is bizarre enough, anxiety inducing enough that I worry and stress the entire duration of my trip, then promptly begin worrying about my return flight. And the odds? Well, sure, they're against me, but so were the odds of a terrorist attack taking place the week of my wedding, right?
Anyhow, I'm in the early stages of my panic now. I'm not allowing it to completely overcome me. I'm still focusing on the practical pre-trip planning. I want to make this whole thing as painless for Dave as possible, so there's a lot of planning to do. And when I'm not planning, I'm trying to focus on the fun part of the trip. But then, just as I start thinking about the enjoyable part of my visit , a new thought finds its way into my head. I'll probably survive the flight, but what if an earthquake gets me? Yeah, I have issues.
Pasta ala Fridge
5 years ago