*Note: This entry was written on the first of three plane rides to Peru a few weeks ago. I tend to be a fearful flyer (now there’s an understatement), so I write through take off to help get my mind off the noise of the engines and the swoosh of the wind blowing past me at however many miles per hour as we lift off the ground. The entire experience is an insult to my senses, and I find it interesting to capture the feelings going through my crazy mind as they happen. If nothing else, let my written therapy be for your amusement. Enjoy!

Every time I get on a plane, I panic. The initial panic is what you might label as an extreme fear of flying: What’s that noise? What’s that smell? Why hasn’t the captain announced him/herself yet? Has he/she been drinking? I need to get off this plane!

Visions of the drunken pilot skit with Dean Martin and Foster Brooks dances like sugarplums in my ridiculous head, causing my palms to sweat with every passing second.

That vision firmly planted in my head, my heart starts to race as we push back from the gate and the (drunk) captain starts the engines.

There’s no turning back now, I think to myself as I white knuckle the armrest, looking around for signs of impending doom, expecting to surely find some.

Take off brings about an entirely new world of panic as we race down the tarmac and leap into the air like the superman I am certain we are not. I repeat affirmations in my head as we glide up, up and away into the vastness of the big blue sky (you’re a good plane, you’re going to get us there safely, I know you will!).

After the initial bumps and banks of the climb (do they really have to turn so freakin’ hard the minute we get off the ground? Sheesh! I’m trying to keep my heart in my chest here, people!), my armpits start to dry off (oh, did I forget to mention those were wet with fear? Well, now you know), and the sweat on the palms of my hands start to subside enough for me to hold a pen so I can distract myself with the in-flight Sudoku.

Once we level off at our cruising altitude, I loosen the grip on the seat (or, in this case, my husband’s thigh), realize that even if the pilot is drunk (which, at this point, I’m thinking maybe he’s not), autopilot will save me. I curse myself for being such a scaredy cat, but give the airplane another word of encouragement, just for good measure (you did such a good job, Mr. plane! Keep up the good work! I know. I’m a nutcase.). I look around and take stock of the busy flight attendants getting the drink cart ready, and to my horror, discover that there is no personal tv on the seat in front of me. The reality of the trip sets in: I’m going to be on this metal tube for an ungodly amount of hours. What the hell am I going to do for all this time? With no tv to entertain me, no internet to waste my life on, and nowhere to run but up and down the aisles (which, incidentally, the passengers and crew don’t take kindly to), I’m start to feel trapped.

Ignoring the plethora of distractions I made sure to pack for myself to help pass the time (books, journal, computer, iPad, food – you know – more than I could ever need), a new panic begins to set in: how will I pass the time?

My first thought is always to eat, hungry or not (and to be clear, I’m never hungry on a plane. I’m one of those people who bloats at the mere sight of an aircraft, so you can only imagine what happens to me at 37, 000 feet). I reach for the food I don’t even want, fooling myself into thinking it will distract me for however many hours I need distracting. But since my stomach isn’t big enough to eat for that long (and incidentally, no ones is), the eating inevitably stops and once again I’m left to my own devices (never a good thing).

This very thing is happening to me as I write. I’m on my way to Peru, and I have another 17 hours of travel ahead of me (barf). I’m sipping on my jasmine green tea (a great distraction) and I’m fighting the urge to reach for the bar I have stashed away in my purse despite my stomach ache (and the nuts…and the raw snack I brought…and the veggie wrap I bought at LAX, just in case I was separated from food for longer than 5 seconds).

And suddenly, it hits me: when did I become delinquent in the art of doing nothing? Why does the prospect of having “nothing” to do for so many hours make me panic? Aren’t I constantly busy at home, always wishing for more hours in a day, filling my calendar with more things to do than I have hours in the day to complete them?

Why oh why is it so hard for me to sit still and just be? Why do I need to be distracted in the first place? What is it that I need distracting from? Myself? My thoughts (well, arguably, as you’ve seen, distracting me from my crazy thoughts is probably a good thing…)?

To be fair, the fearful flyer in me has a hard time relaxing on a plane. I’m always listening for noises, paying close attention to the passengers for any shifty behavior, and having mild (ok, big) panic attacks at the first sign of turbulence (seriously – those wings always look like they are about to break off! I know my mother is reading this and shaking her head at me. She was a flight attendant for 40 years so I’ve been flying since I was literally in the womb. Where this fear comes from I will never know, but it will forever be to the amusement of my family. But I digress. Again. Must be all this time I have to kill. Focus, Lauren….focus!).

Back to the art of doing nothing…

In this world of constant distraction, it is my theory that it will take a little deprogramming to help me feel free to do nothing. And it would stand to reason that if I could squeeze some “nothingness” into my daily life back on the ground, I may need less time to deprogram on my next long flight. Which happens to be 5 hours from now.

Here’s hoping. I will let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, I’d better get back to monitoring the noises on this plane and make sure the pilot is headed in the right direction. Because apparently, somewhere between the gate at LAX and now, I’ve mastered the art of aviation and know exactly how to get to Peru from here. Gosh – what would he do without me?

I should probably grab a snack while I’m at it. It has been 5 minutes, after all.

What was that noise?

Your crazy friend,
Lauren

*Note: Because God apparently has a sense of humor, for the last 20 minutes of that plane ride, we flew through a lighting storm, all the way through our descent into San Salvador. As you can imagine, I was none too pleased, and much too frightened to write. I was too busy clawing at my husband’s leg as he unconvincingly tried to tell me that the bolts of lighting were just lights from the wings. Um, yeah. Unless this is Zeus’ personal plane, I’m not buying it, husband. Gotta love him for trying, though.