Great. So now I have yet ANOTHER stupid issue to deal with.
Apparently, I am now afraid of flying… I used to love flying! I thought it was awesome! I adored every aspect of it – trooping through the airport, getting seating assignments, watching the land get smaller and smaller as the plane ascended, little sterile packages of single-portion food, free wine on international flights… I even enjoyed relieving myself in airplane bathrooms!
Something has changed, however.
I first noticed it when I was flying from London to Istanbul. Glancing out the little porthole window during takeoff, I noticed my palms beginning to sweat heavily, and my heart leaped into my throat. I had to down like three Vicodin (my “mommy’s little helper” of traveling) to calm down and breathe normally. Uhhh, what was that reaction?! I asked myself. The rest of my travels yielded a similar reaction, but I attempted to push it to the back of my mind with copious amounts of poor quality airline merlot and expired prescription pills donated to me by caring friends.
My trip back to Seattle from Austin last weekend was worse than EVER! I don’t know what is going ON with me!
Perhaps I should paint a detailed picture so we can all visualize what a hot mess I was. First of all, it was an early morning flight and, predictably, I had stayed out late drinking an unhealthy amount of vodka. Last night on vacation, there is no other choice. Anyway, I hadn’t plotted the situation out clearly (imagine that) and had already packed everything in a precariously stuffed duffel bag. Including all underwear. So I donned the only skimpy sundress I had left out of my luggage, along with the bikini top I had been wearing in the pool the night before, since it was still drying out in the bathroom. And all the jewelry I had brought with me, since that was still out on the nightstand, of course. Quite the respectable travel outfit.
We finally board the plane and it’s absolutely disgusting. Thanks, hotwire.com. (It’s not really hotwire’s fault, it’s mine for being such a cheapass and settling on the very bottom of the barrel because it saved me like $50.) Anyway, this was a US Air flight on an airplane that had to have been manufactured in 1973. There were still ashtrays – WITH RESIDUE – in the armrests! Not only that, but the paint job left a bit to be desired. As in, there were scratches and suspicious stains everywhere on the walls of the plane and sides of the seats. Great. Also, it smelled weird. The plane took off and I realized I was in trouble. This was the bumpiest ride ever. Seriously, we would be better off taking a rickshaw to Seattle. It would at least be more comfortable.
I sat there on the plane, petrified of crashing. I was seated in an exit row, which is usually sweet because you get more legroom, but in this instance I was cursing my luck. With this deathtrap, we certainly would be in need of the emergency exits at some point, and this hungover, panicked woman dressed in an unnecessarily slutty fashion clearly was not the best choice to be manning the only pathway to freedom when this plane was up in flames somewhere over Colorado.
When we finally landed, I was shocked and embarrassed to see that I had been panic-sweating so profusely that my seat was soaked in sweat. My palms were so clammy that the novel I had been attempting to read was damp and its pages were all wavy and clumped together. SO GROSS. My heart had been beating so fiercely during landing that I was having trouble walking without wobbling. Plus, thanks to a combination of too much alcohol and too much stress, I had one of the worst cases of heartburn ever. Add this all to the fact I was paranoid I had contracted a case of clap from the 1970s from sitting on that sketchy seat with no underwear. I was a walking disaster; ask anyone else who had the privilege of being on that miserable US Air flight.
On our layover in Phoenix, I calmed my nerves (and acid reflux) with a little treat from TCBY (take note: nonfat, sugar-free frozen yogurt is a surefire way to my heart). I also dug through my bag to find some clean underwear and fixed that situation in the airport bathroom. These two activities improved my mood considerably, then the tables were turned even further in the right direction when I discovered one last Ambien leftover in the illegal Mexican pharmacy otherwise known as my purse. Perfect.
So the flight from Phoenix to Seattle was considerably more smooth, thanks to my pharmaceutical epiphany (complete with bizarre hallucinations the whole way; sleeping pill side effects: blessing or curse? You be the judge!) and before I knew it I was back on my home turf.
I think I’ve learned two lessons from my ordeal:
1. Don’t buy the cheapest flight off one of those travel deal websites. Even if you are pretty ghetto. At least spring for Alaska Air… or Southwest. Seriously, worth it.
2. Apparently I have some weird travel anxiety that has waited 23 years to rear its ugly head, probably time to take a break from jetsetting around this summer. I get a vague Final Destination vibe from all this.
Possibly my favorite beer in the world… SHINER BOCK!
It’s a well-established fact that I am mildly obsessed with Scandinavian culture. Moods of Norway even won over my companions, who previously had been getting a little impatient with my wild-eyed window shopping. It was decorated like a cheesy lodge (made me happy!), had a huge golden tractor you were allowed to “ride” (made Grace happy!) and it was freaking “waffle Saturday” aka FREE WAFFLES FOR ALL (made KJ kind of scarily happy!). Those crafty Norwegians, they made it all too easy to justify spending $120 on a fur-lined jacket (see image). When I told the shopgirl I was going back to Seattle and needed something that would keep me warm all throughout our miserable, disgusting winter months, she claimed my jacket would be “warmer than a 
