I didn’t think I was afraid to fly until I was at the airport, and then I was terrified.
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This Labor Day weekend, I found myself on a trip to Colorado. There will be more to come on the trip itself, but first, I had to conquer the flight there and back.
The last time I stepped foot in the airport, I was 17 and invincible. Now I’m 24 and just a little more wary.
I was nerved up about the flight, but even the process of getting to the airport and making it through security made me anxious. I spent 30 minutes the night before the flight looking up the rules on liquids and the security checks, at one point literally googling the phrase “how does the TSA work.”
With this level of anxiety, I was legitimately quivering by the time we got to the security check. And, of course, it passed without incident. (I learned nothing from this; I was equally nervous before the security check on the flight home. But hey, at least we made it through.)
Once we got through the scary part of the airport and found our gate, I realized that airports are actually a complete vibe. With countless stores and restaurants and vending machines, there was plenty to see and do and snack on. It was a liminal space, complete with a Dunkin’ Donuts, and I was thriving. I lounged at the gate, charging my phone and sipping an iced coffee, finally starting to get excited for the trip now that some of my nerves had abated.
That is, until I got on the plane.
Sandwiched between my friend and a chatty, slightly tipsy stranger, I felt myself getting tense as I stowed away my carry-on and buckled up. The flight attendant began the safety demonstration, and I dutifully followed along with the brochure at my seat, ignoring my trembling hands.
I like roller coasters. I enjoy a thrill. But something about a flight made me so anxious that I felt queasy. Queuing up my music — a mix of very depressing Fiona Apple and Elliott Smith music, thank you very much — I popped in my earbuds and said a quick prayer while I was at it. I chomped on a piece of gum. I wrung my hands. I waited.
The plane started to rumble. Over the crackly intercom, the pilot informed us that we’d be in Denver in two hours. Unhelpfully, I remembered reading somewhere that a plane is most likely to crash during takeoff and landing. And then the plane picked up speed, zooming down the runway until suddenly it lifted into the air. My friends gave me pitying “You okay?” looks as we shot through blue sky and into the clouds.
I zoned out for two hours, squeezed my eyes shut during the landing, and then we were in Denver.
For those who have never been there, the Denver airport is huge and known for its alien memorabilia, prompting conspiracies that there’s an Area 51 quality about it. We navigated it slowly, stopping every few minutes to double check the signs and maps until we made it outside and into the mountain air.
A few days later, our return to the Denver airport went a lot more smoothly. Waiting to board our flight to St. Louis, I found a statue of an alien and made my friend take my picture. We located a Jamba Juice and slurped on smoothies. We generally had a great time at the airport.
And then we boarded the plane, and once again, I was so nervous. I couldn’t shake the shaking. It didn’t matter that I had flown just a few days ago and now knew what to expect. I breathing-exercised my way through the whole flight.
Ultimately, we landed in St. Louis at 9:30 p.m. on Monday night and headed home. It was a great trip, even though I’m exhausted as I write this on Tuesday morning.
And now that I’ve navigated two flights and have both feet safely on the ground, I feel disproportionately confident about the whole thing. “Flying is no big deal to me,” I texted one buddy out in California who asked if I’d ever like to visit.
Right. We’ll see how it goes when I try to get through LAX on my own. In the meantime, I think I’ll stick to road trips.
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