By J. A. Stanula

I fly constantly. Unfortunately, there is nowhere I feel less comfortable than in an airplane. I don’t like the idea of floating above the earth, and I like even less that a plane has to thrust itself so aggressively into the sky to catch the wind and stay in flight.  I do like to travel, though, and make an appearance at various weddings and family holidays, mostly because of all the free food.  I used to make myself fly because my girlfriend was far away and even when I didn’t have money to go to the movies, I somehow had money to fly to Chicago. Last year, I was in Chicago 10 times. Oh, and I have a job, too, that requires me to travel. Last year, I visited 5 different states, and had layovers in 4 additional states.  That’s 38 flights, 38 landings, and 38 takeoffs.  I especially hate takeoffs.

Although I’ve wasted money, blood, sweat, and tears in the air, I’ve learned more about myself than I ever could have on some shrink’s couch. It’s not just that I’m afraid of flying, or that I’m afraid of crashing.  It’s that every flaw in my personality is accentuated by the process of flying. Like that mutant mirror attached on a robot arm to the wall of a hotel bathroom that enhances every pore and blemish on your face; flying is my personality magnifying glass.

Every year, flying stresses me out more than the year before. And every time I walk into an airport my blood pressure rises and the worrier in me takes over. Because of security and terrorists and George Bush, the process of getting on a plane requires the patience of eating a 7 course meal with chopsticks. Not that long ago going through airport security was merely a few extra minutes added to the total trip, now it’s like standing in a line up hoping you don’t get fingered. I’m so afraid of accidentally tipping off the Feds to some crime I did not commit that I don’t even wear a belt to the airport, or shoes that require tying. I clean out every pocket and pouch in my bag to be sure I won’t be stopped in security with contraband. While my bags commute through the x-ray machine I worry incessantly and as a result have an undeniable look of guilty nervousness upon my face. Did I leave my tweezers in the zipper pouch? Is my shampoo bottle 3ml instead of 3oz? Did I leave my bag unattended?? Did some one slip a flamethrower or a stick of dynamite in my bag while I naively looked away to pay for my Junior Mints??? My eyes dart around in attempt to appear calm, and I stumble awkwardly over the most simple phrases, “Should I...um...remove my shoes? Oh, my ID? Here…here it is.”

Oh, and I sweat.  I sweat a lot.

Its not just the worrier in me that comes out when I fly, it’s the Rain Man, too. Sure, in everyday life I like to arrange my pens in order by ink and performance level and eat green M&Ms last, but my obsessive compulsiveness truly shines when I fly. I have a permanent, unbreakable routine that definitely makes the experience even worse that it already is. Because of my overwhelming fear of boredom and the uncontrollable fear of forgetting something important, I tend to pack a carry-on roughly twice the size of my checked luggage. This carry-on is the evolved version of my “Road Trip to Grandma’s” kit I would frantically assemble throughout my youth the moment I knew I would be in the car for more than 15 minutes.  I packed extra when I thought I’d be possibly stuck at an aging relative’s house while someone’s graduation was being celebrated in a cheaply decorated backyard and my mom chugged cheap, domestic beers long after my bedtime. This kit included everything from pens, pencils, markers, highlighters, 3 or more books (in case I am so ignored I have time to finish the first or second) my Walkman (or Discman depending on if it was the 80’s or 90’s), possibly some tiny, green, army men, an Etch-a-Sketch and a miniature chessboard.

My tastes have matured, but only slightly. I still imagine my backpack to be a survival kit. Laptop computer, iPod, books (still plural, though they’ve gotten longer), trashy magazines, newspaper, pad of paper and pens (also plural), cell phone, planner, and whatever mail I haven’t recently opened – I shove all of it into my backpack like an attention deficit child. Yet, I rarely, if ever, actually open my backpack on the aircraft itself, though I never stow it in an overhead compartment. It’s important that the bag is cramping my legs, shoved under the seat in front of me, restricting me from stretching them out.  Just to remind me that I’m the victim here.

As soon as I am seated, long before the pilot ever even thinks about leaving the ground I wedge myself into a “comfortable” position, drape something over my eyes, cross my arms across my chest and attempt to sleep, regardless of the fact that I spent hours carefully constructing my activity pack. I do not listen to my iPod because I know I will be awakened to turn it off as the plane begins to move. When the plane takes flight, I refuse to tilt my seat back, again, because I know that at landing a sweet-faced stewardess will wake me from my angry partial slumber to remind me that my seat must be in the upright and locked position. I am partially concerned I’d retaliate against her, and partially concerned she would have found me slack-jawed and drooling.

Flying also heightens my tendency to give in to irrational fears. At home, I always assume a single candle will cause an apartment fire or my cat will choke on a bottle cap, but when I fly, I play a slideshow of movies in my head that contain plane crashes. Inside I know that because I am not Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper or Richie Valens, the day I am in a plane crash will never be known as The Day The Music Died. Except for rare occasions, in most movies that involve the impending doom of a plane crash, the planes miraculously correct themselves almost immediately after a secret affection or crime is confessed. The passengers attempt to save themselves from the punishment of an angry god for not confessing their sins, or their own regret for having not told their best friend/boss/ex they are/have always been/are still in love with him/her.

Because of this fact, those sitcom pseudo crashes make the irrational fear subside slightly, knowing that, more likely than not, in the moment that my plane is about to go sliding into some farmland or an ocean, all I will truly need to do is confess my secret love, or that I pulled off a bank heist, or that I raised money for starving kids in Africa and gambled it away, or something equally as immoral, and my plane will likely not crash—though I might serve some jail time or live in embarrassment of my unreturned love of a second cousin or my ophthalmologist. My irrational fear does resurface, though, each time screens lower to show an in-flight movie. What if they show a movie containing a plane crash scene on the plane? Is it someone’s job to screen for that?

As a fiercely independent person, I also hate that I am so vulnerable when I fly. I have stockpiles of images in my head of airports, boarding passes, take-offs and landings, but the only way I can decipher memories of previous flights from dreams about flying is that in my dreams the planes almost always crash. Sometimes the plane crashes in the creek where I used to fish and light campfires near my house. Sometimes the plane crashes – nose first, sticking up out of the air like a lawn dart – into the park I played in as a kid. Sometimes the plane crashes into my house, and there is fire and everyone is screaming.

Once I dreamed of a plane crash while I was in my partial angry slumber, arms crossed in front of my chest, on a flight from Chicago to Washington, D.C..  For the first time, I was on the crashing plane instead of witnessing it from the ground far below. I dreamed of the plane exactly as it was on that day, sitting in my seat, flying home. In the dream, the plane just suddenly tilts and barrels towards the ground at a million miles an hour and I know its crashing and I’m going to die and all I can do is clutch the ring my girlfriend’s grandmother gave her, which she let me wear, repeating over and over “I love you Lauren.”

I woke up in a start—on the silent flight, breathing the stale air—surprised. I don’t know if this was some sort of plane-crash-confession moment for me, my subconscious trying to pull the nose of the plane back up, because I had already told Lauren I loved her months before, and she wasn’t even there to hear my confession. I do know that upon landing I called her and told her about the dream, and that I hadn’t been that scared of dying, but wanted to be sure she knew I loved her, AND that I was glad that my last thoughts were of her and not of my cats or something even more selfish like “Shit! I didn’t spend that GAP Gift Card.” So, while maybe not a confessional, it was comforting to know that I really did love her, even while my plane was spiraling downward somewhere into Ohio.

I still book flights and pack suitcases. I still block out days on my calendar when my job needs someone to do a training in California. I still make a point to cameo at family parties half way across the country. I still over pack, and remember to tell Lauren I love her before and after I fly. I try to be brave enough to pull that mutant mirror toward my face every time I’m sleeping in a hotel is some strange city, knowing that magnifying the flaws aren’t going to make them worse. I still involuntarily collect frequent flier points, but I always keep a secret handy in case the nose of the plane ever tips toward the ground.

Author Bio: J. A. Stanula is a Chicagoan, born and raised, who is currently plowing through a Master’s of Writing, with a focus in non-fiction, at The Johns Hopkins University 800 miles from home. She digs humor writing, historical non-fiction, travel writing, and also has a strong interest in writing which exposes the issues, struggles and triumphs of minority communities. She hopes to return to Chicago after graduation to become involved with StoryStudio and participate in the wonderful writing scene in the best city on Earth.