So I went out of town a couple of weeks ago to visit a friend who is now my boyfriend, but he lives 1,000 miles away, and that sucks, and he’s also way hot and smart and cool, and I kind of wonder how the hell I managed to “catch” him, seeing as I’m a dork and talk about vaginas entirely too much, and does he like me for my tiramisu, or did I totally trick him into liking me by describing my boobs as “fantastic” (he says they are, but he may be biased) and constantly calling him awesome? Shit, dude, I don’t know, but I’ll gladly let myself worry about these things as I simultaneously DATE THE CRAP OUT OF HIM. (I don’t know how one would do that, but if anyone can do it, it’s me.)

Plus he has awesome movies and likes to eat sushi as much as possible. That’s not a sexual innuendo.

I flew to go see him two weeks ago yesterday. Man. I suck at flying. I hadn’t done it in fifteen years, so I got my doctor to prescribe me some Xanax. Which really didn’t help that much — or so I thought. I hadn’t realized I would be flying on smaller planes, so when I had to go out on the airplane parking lot thing and walk to the plane, and then climb the little stairs to get up there, I seriously wanted to turn around at the top and give Nixon peace signs, and I was mad at myself for not bring my hatbox as my carry-on. Next time I fly, I’m wearing a pillbox hat. So I got on the plane, and took a Xanax, and I was nervous, but I thought, hey, I did this when I was a kid, it’ll be fine.

Oh, no. No, it was not. I was sitting next to some business guy who was reading his paper and wouldn’t even acknowledge me, and what I really wanted was for him to say, “It’s going to be fine. I fly all the time. In fact, I’m a maintenance worker for US Airlines, and I just checked out the plane, and it’s in perfect condition! Plus, I know the pilot and co-pilot, and they are totally sober, well-rested, and highly trained with lots of experience.” But all he did was read his paper. Selfish bastard.

We took off, and I contained my screams of terror. I had a window seat, which I had thought would be better for my anxiety since I could see what was going on. Nope, that didn’t work. I realized during take-off that it’s not just the height that scares me, it’s the falling. My friend Caroline had told me recently that smaller planes feel differently than larger ones, which I discovered was very true. Every time the plane would turn and one of the sides dipped downwards, I would loudly gasp and grab the armrests, which I don’t think Businessman appreciated, but he didn’t ameliorate my fears, so he can just suck it.

I ended up confiding in the flight attendant that I was scared (although I didn’t tell her that I was so afraid that the dryness of my panties was at stake), and she was very nice, and reassured me that we were not going to plummet towards the ground. She was cute and had dimples, so I totally believed her.

I had to change planes in D.C., and the flight attendant told me ahead of time that — because of the restricted airspace — we had to follow the Potomac, so there would be a lot of turning and dipping. Thank God she told me ahead of time because I would have grabbed Businessman for dear life. I suspect he would have rolled up his paper and smacked me on the head, firmly saying, “No! No! Bad girl!”

The flight out of D.C. wasn’t so bad, and I sat next to a nice older guy who talked to me and was cool about me grabbing for his armrest and the seat in front of me every time the plane wiggled. I got to my destination in relatively good condition and with underwear without a sprinkle of pee on them, and proceeded to have an awesome week and a half.

I thought I’d be fine on the flights home, so I didn’t take a Xanax ahead of time, but apparently bawling like an emo kid can exacerbate anxiety because, as we were taking off, I started kind of shrieking in a hushed voice, “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD,” and then gasping really loudly and flinging my hand over my mouth. So not only did I cry until my face was red and my nose was snotty, but I managed to draw attention to myself twice by also acting like a frickin’ nut. I had an aisle of chairs to myself, and I sat by the aisle this time — which was a smart idea because talking to flight attendants is much easier when you don’t have to hiss over someone. The conversation with her was basically the following:

“Hi, I’m really scared, so can you just let me know that we’re doing okay from time to time?”
“Oh, sure. Is it your first time flying.”
“No. I flew twice last week, and I hated it.”
(Flight attendant consoles me by telling me that flying is the safest way to travel, that it’s better than driving in cars because every time there’s an accident, it’s investigated, so they can make sure it doesn’t happen again.)
“So the pilots are good?”
“Oh, yes, they’re very good.”
“And you had maintenance done?”
“Yes. We did another run on this plane earlier, and everything was checked out and is fine.”
“So the engine’s not going to fall off the plane?”
“…No.”

I felt better after talking to her, but I started to feel sick, and there was no damn barf bag, so I risked being sucked out of the airplane from some crazy person opening the emergency exit, and I took off my seatbelt and went to the bathroom. I tried to calm myself down by verbally reassure myself that, “This is just a normal bathroom, just a normal bathroom,” but that turned into, “OH MY GOD WE ARE MILES IN THE AIR OH GOD OH GOD I WANT TO GO HOMMMMEEEEEEE.” Some how I managed to not puke, get back to my seat, and make it through all two hours of the flight. The businesswoman across the aisle kept glancing at me every time I even moved, and I was so tempted to scoot across the aisle, sit in the empty seat next to her, and say, “Hi, do you fly a lot? My name is Emily. Let me tell you my life story while you try to read your book. Oh, can I look at your book? Gee, thanks. So, anyway, I was born on a rainy day in August…” Apparently fear makes me want to be an annoying bitch.

The flight to Memphis was actually… totally fine. I wasn’t scared at all. It was amazing. So apparently I can fly, so long as it’s at night, I’m sitting by the aisle, the flight is no longer than an hour, people are sleeping on the plane, and I can’t see out the window near me because it’s blocked by a guy who’s asleep and snoring.

I. Am. Awesome.