Flight Risk

I’ve been traveling a lot lately.

Usually, I prefer to drive – not only because I like having the time in the car to think about things, or sing to myself, or talk to myself.

(Boy, am I glad Bluetooth was invented. Now other drivers don’t look at me like I’m nuts when I’m talking to myself in the car.)

But I really prefer to drive because flying makes me nervous.

It’s not the fact that I’m thirty-five bajillion thousand feet up in a lightning-attracting metal craft that is much heavier than air.

Nor is it that I really dislike sitting super chummy close to strangers that are invariably carrying every strain of flu, but insist that “it’s just allergies.”

It’s not even the fact that I’m locked into an enclosed space over which I have no control.

No, flying makes me nervous because in order to get on the airplane, I have to go through airport security.

I would love to be a confident seasoned traveler, zipping through the airport pulling my smart rolling carry-on in one hand, and confidently clutching my venti no-fat latte and boarding pass with the other.

But instead, I’m a clumsy, fumbling ditz with about as much confidence as a seventh grader on the first day of school.

For some reason, standing in the line for security makes me extremely nervous. I don’t know why. I have nothing to worry about…

…except for that full-sized bottle of lotion that I keep forgetting is in the bottom of my purse. (Only had to go through security three times for that one. And I almost made my flight!)

…or the expired license that I inexplicably keep behind my current one and will invariably pull out by mistake. (“No, my real license isn’t expired, sir. I can explain why I have two IDs.”)

…or the super cute sweater with metallic threads that kept setting off the scanner. (Don’t worry. Getting a pat-down is just like getting an awkward hug from a stranger. Only it’s not.)

So I shift my feet in line, constantly check my ID, and try to avoid all eye contact with the friendly neighborhood TSA agent, all the while chastising myself for choosing to fly.

“Why did I buy a plane ticket?” I wonder. “New Hampshire isn’t that far. It’s only 22 hours. That’s not too bad. I so should have driven!”



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