Disclaimer: The following journal entry was written in flight, somewhere over Belize. The words were typed up exactly as they were written, minus the unmistakable evidence of handwriting written by someone whose hands were shaking with fear. Real, irrational, fear. Those hands belonged to me. Yes, my friends, I am the fearful flyer. Read on at your own discretion.

Some would say I have an overreactive imagination.

I would say I have an overreactive imagination.

Only I would look at my sleeping husband’s watch as we glided through the air enroute to our honeymoon at 33 000 feet and remark that it was 11am.

Why is this remarkable, you ask?

Well because the captain said the flying time would be 4 hours and 30 minutes. We left at 6:30am.

Um…excuse me! If my calculations are correct, that means we should have landed by now. And we’re not even descending yet! We’re still flying here at 33 000 feet, soaring above the clouds, no sign of a descent in sight. And no announcements from the captain yet? Not a peep. No seat belt sign has been illuminated yet either. And, gosh darn it, where are those flight attendants? Aren’t they concerned?

That’s is. The pilots must have fallen asleep. There is no other explanation.

Should I intervene? How can I do it without seeming crazy?

“Um, excuse me, but I believe the pilots have fallen asleep at the controls. How do I know? I just know.”

Or worse still – what if they both had a heart attack? Both of them? Is there another pilot on board?

Oh great. Now Ted’s going to have to take the controls and learn how to fly while I communicate with air traffic control and read the instruction  manual to Ted. I’m sure there’s a copy of Flying an Airbus 321 For Dummies somewhere up there.

I’m getting more and more nervous. My armpits are sweating – crap, did I remember to put deodorant on? I don’t think so…nope…definitely not.

My right leg is fidgeting up and down so hard I just might stomp a hole in the floor with my heel.

Officially over panicked (and arguably ready for an insane asylum), with sweaty palms, I wake Ted up and ask the question:

Shouldn’t we have landed by now?

No, he reassures me, having absolutely no idea of the thoughts that have been racing through my head for the last terrifying 5 minutes.

I sit back in my seat, sure that he’s wrong and still searching the cabin frantically for the flight attendants. If I don’t act soon, we will run out of fuel!!

Just as I’m about to pull a Kristin Wig from Bridesmaids and declare that there’s a colonial woman on the wing, I hear the sweet “ding” as the captain turns on the seat belt sign. Within seconds I feel the engines begin to slow down and start to descend into El Salvador. Seconds after that, my faithful flight attendants make the announcement to return to our seats, fasten our seat belts and bla, bla, bla.

It’s about freakin time.

Landing sends an entirely new set of fears through my mind, but I won’t share those with you.

Then you might think I’m really crazy.