Wednesday, January 4, 2006

Flying, and I’m referring to the practice of strapping yourself to a winged metal can in the sky, matures from stark terror to dull, hollow fear, once you do it often enough. Liftoff is exciting, to be sure, in the way it violates that comfortable phenomenon known as gravity, but who am I to complain? Southwest had special discounts on airfare, so everything was okay.

My flight back to Chicago was turbulent. One woman fainted, necessitating a concerned rush of medically trained passengers to the front of the plane, which further necessitated someone knocking a sandwich out of my hand. Food, however, was least important at this point, and after the incident other matters caught my attention, such as the jolts that were rocking the cabin.

Air personnel are unflappable, it occurred to me, and probably for good reason. This is what you will hear, even in the most dire of situations–

“Please make sure all seats and tray tables are in their upright and locked positions.”

–when really, they should be saying this:

“Please make sure all seats and tray tables are in their upright and locked positions and prepare to be royally fucked.”

If the plane dropped out of the sky at that specific moment, it also occurred to me, the situation wouldn’t have been so bad. Now, for the record, this isn’t a desperate cry for intervention, nor am I giving away my stuff. I’m just saying, you know? The fancy was liberating–if we did crash, I wouldn’t exactly have a say in the matter, but the stress and the grind would be gone. I was at peace.

Reentry. There’s the rub. Is it ever pleasant? Astronauts don’t usually pop open the freeze-dried ice cream when they’re hurtling back home, I don’t think, though I could be wrong. Remind me to contact NASA for answers.