Going Back To Cali....

Part 1: She Thinks She Missed the Train to Mars

I usually wake up and look at Swetus and my little heart smiles. I then actually smile because I'm consistently amazed at the strange pretzel-like contortions we manage to find ourselves in throughout the course of a night. I wish I could think of an image that is cooler or sexier, but the only image that comes to mind is of two ferrets burrowing. Only less hairy, thank God.

Anyhoo, I woke up the morning of my flight to San Diego and didn't smile. In fact, I woke up with a gasp. I had quite the nasty nightmare about my flight. The plane started wiggling like a noodle and then nose-dived into the ground. Now, it's disconcerting to say the least, but then right at the moment Swetus was trying to comfort me, my actual alarm went off and I had to leave for the airport right then.

But it wasn't even the plane crash itself in the dream that fucked me up. It was the fact that my dad was in the dream and as we were nose-diving, he gave me this looks that was like, "We're screwed." I have an odd relationship with my father, but he is nothing if not the Consummate Traveler. The only times I'm not freaked out on a plane is when I'm traveling with him. He just does it so much, it's actually a bit of a comfort. The wing could fall off the plane and I could look to him and he could casually say, "Not a problem. This happened to me once on a flight to Singapore." And I'd be totally cool with that. The fact that I saw HIM freaked out in my dream, on top of the dream happening right before I left, and also that one leg of my journey would actually be on a flight with my father--well, it basically fucked my shit up. I was crying as Swetus tried to calm me.

"You have more of a chance of dying on the way to the airport than on the plane."

Um, NOT helping, Swetus. Wrong answer. Also, I fucking hate when people who don't mind to fly throw the driving statistics in my face. Clearly, I am cognizant of the fact that driving is more dangerous. Bad things are more likely to happen there because we all do it more often. The odds are higher. But shut it. I'm scared, is all. And I know the logistics, but try telling that to my panic attack. Those stupid things never listen to reason.

I wasn't always like this about flying. I blame two things, really. The first is 9/11, and I hate having to cite it as a reason, probably because the image of 9/11 has become so bastardized and politicized, I feel you can't mention it without having an agenda attached to the back of it. But it's true. Watching the planes hit the towers and thinking about all those poor people, on the planes, in the buildings, all out of their control thanks to hatred. I think of all those helpless people, and the control freak in me breaks more on top of my heart which was already breaking as the day unfolded. I've looked at planes very wearily since then. It shook me as it shook everyone, but I'm not trying to sell anything. Though you should totally buy my book Why You Should be Constantly Scared into Voting Republican--thanks to Penguin books--keep an eye out!

The other reason is the movie Final Destination. Yes, I am dead serious. 9/11 and a teen horror flick. My mind is a scary place to navigate. But here's my deal--the movie is crappy, yet I absolutely adore it. Like, to an insane degree. The plane crash sequence in the beginning is actually quite awesome, and then I find a sick satisfaction of the awkward death scenes throughout. For those of you unfortunate enough to have never experienced the glory that is Final Destination, it's basically this: A dude on a school trip to Paris has a dream about the plane crashing, freaks out and gets off the plane, thereby escaping his actual death when the plane blows up exactly as it had in his dream. [Not related to my fears, but then Death gets all pissed and goes after the people who got off the plane, one ridiculous and gory death at a time] There is many a plothole to mock in it, but it does raise the question: Is there a way to avoid/forsee your fate? And so much of my panic with flying happens before the flight takes place. Because I feel once I am fully up in the air, well then, I'm in it to win it. I'm either going down in a fiery crash or not. But as long as I have the option to get off the plane and avoid said fiery death, I will be freaked out that I'm not heeding some cosmic warning.

My boy acquired me some Xanax to ease this transition. And I had to wake up very, very early so actually upon sitting down in my little airplane seat, I passed the fuck out. And only woke up in the middle of takeoff.

Why?

Fucking XTREME turbulence. Holy shit, I was right. Great. Just great. I would die when I finally have a lovely man in my life and my sister's graduating law school, which has been her ambition since, oh I don't know, she first opened up her damn mouth! Stupid Fate, you little bitch.

And here's the funny thing about the Xanax. It gave me a humorous perspective on the matter. I had been crying and freaking out up until it kicked in and then I only woke up because I was convinced I was going to die, just like I thought. And then I just took a moment to ponder how many prophets wound up like this--you know, starting their careers off by predicting their untimely deaths and therefore, the world being robbed of their great talent. I bet if Nostradamus had to get on a few planes, we wouldn't be digging through his crappy poetry trying to find the Anti-Christ today. And then I was a little proud that I was right, even if this was the beginning and end of my prophecy career.

But clearly if I'm writing this, I didn't in fact die, I'm not a great prophet, and I still become an Evil Leprechaun when I'm drunk. Abby met me at the airport, I gave her a huge hug, and then we were off to get pedicures!

Thus ends Part 1--technically, none of this but the last the last sentence actually took place in California, but I felt it was the proper way to start my Tales of the Trip.