I hate flying. Hate it. When I get on a flight I’m usually over-medicated and drunk just to counteract the insane amount of fear I experience every time I step on a plane. When we hit turbulence I freak out, grab my armrests and glance over at the attendant to make sure she/he is still reading their People magazine and not looking worried themselves. I usually try to station myself near the emergency exit so I can get off the plane with a quickness if I have to. Why don’t I just volunteer to sit in the actual row? Because then you have to help everyone else get off the plane before you do. FUCK THAT. That’s a fool’s game.
It didn’t use to be like this. A few years ago I loved to fly and looked forward to it. It was a chance to sleep or strike up a conversation with someone completely new and convince them you’re someone completely different. I’ve flown as a teenage entrepreneur genius, English philosophy student, Hollywood writer and once even a Temptation Island contestant. I don’t know why I picked the last one.
At any rate, the trouble began on a flight from England to Chicago. It was stormy and the pilot kept saying there were Winter Conditions, which I think sounds like a really emotional movie that would star Kevin Spacey and Julianne Moore. We circle O’Hare for what seems like forever before the pilot finally got on the loudspeaker to say “Aaaaaand I think we’re gonna go for it.” which is NOT something I want to hear a pilot say. If you’ve got any doubts, buddy, let’s turn this thing around and try somewhere else. I’d rather be pissed off in St. Louis then in pieces in Chicago. But we were “going for it”.
Rows ahead of me were two kids traveling by themselves who had been talking and playing the whole trip. Sometimes this can annoy me, but they weren’t kicking the back of my seat or crying so I didn’t really care. As we began to descend they thought it would be a good idea to pretend to be the pilots themselves. “We’re coming in for a landing.” they chirped into their hands recreating the static and tone of the radio communications. Just then the plane gets hit by some turbulence. Bad. It wasn’t like the part in Home Alone 2 where everything’s shaking just enough for Catherine O’Hara to realize she left Kevin at home, this was crazy. The kids, being at that age where mortality hasn’t even been established yet, start pretending to be the pilots of a plane THAT IS GOING DOWN. “We’re crashing! We’re going down!” They yelled and giggled as the cabin shook. “Oh no! The wing’s on fire!” one of them screamed into his hands and as I looked out the window to make sure they were just pretending I wondered whether it was possible to jettison people mid-landing.
“Okay, heeeeerrrreeee weeeeee goooooo!” the actual pilot yelled over the loudspeaker and we dropped. Dropped onto the runway and began fishtailing. People around me are praying, hyperventilating, and mouthing words with their eyes scrunched up tight. I’ve got the people on either side of me holding my hands in a death-grip and I am frantically re-establishing my relationship with God as the two little kids decide to jump their game forward in time and begin to gleefully yell “We’re dying! We’re dying! There’s plane everywhere! Oh no! Oh no! We’ve crashed!” I am seriously weighing the pros and cons of my last moments on earth being used to toss children from a moving plane.
In a braking motion that could only be described as Starsky-esque we finally come to a complete stop. The cabin breaks out into applause with everyone crying and hugging. Everyone but me. We were applauding the pilot for getting us through a situation that he put us in. This pilot wasn’t Sully Sullenberger. O’Hare isn’t the fucking Hudson River. We could have been deferred to another airport, but you put my life in danger just so we could be on time. Fuck that. FUCK. THAT. Flying will never be the same for me again.
And what’s the deal with airplane food. Amirite? Amirite?
I hate flying. Hate it. When I get on a flight I’m usually over-medicated and drunk just to counteract the insane amount of fear I experience every time I step on a plane. When we hit turbulence I freak out, grab my armrests and glance over at the attendant to make sure she/he is still reading their People magazine and not looking worried themselves. I usually try to station myself near the emergency exit so I can get off the plane with a quickness if I have to. Why don’t I just volunteer to sit in the actual row? Because then you have to help everyone else get off the plane before you do. FUCK THAT. That’s a fool’s game.
It didn’t use to be like this. A few years ago I loved to fly and looked forward to it. It was a chance to sleep or strike up a conversation with someone completely new and convince them you’re someone completely different. I’ve flown as a teenage entrepreneur genius, English philosophy student, Hollywood writer and once even a Temptation Island contestant. I don’t know why I picked the last one.
At any rate, the trouble began on a flight from England to Chicago. It was stormy and the pilot kept saying there were Winter Conditions, which I think sounds like a really emotional movie that would star Kevin Spacey and Julianne Moore. We circle O’Hare for what seems like forever before the pilot finally got on the loudspeaker to say “Aaaaaand I think we’re gonna go for it.” which is NOT something I want to hear a pilot say. If you’ve got any doubts, buddy, let’s turn this thing around and try somewhere else. I’d rather be pissed off in St. Louis then in pieces in Chicago. But we were “going for it”.
Rows ahead of me were two kids traveling by themselves who had been talking and playing the whole trip. Sometimes this can annoy me, but they weren’t kicking the back of my seat or crying so I didn’t really care. As we began to descend they thought it would be a good idea to pretend to be the pilots themselves. “We’re coming in for a landing.” they chirped into their hands recreating the static and tone of the radio communications. Just then the plane gets hit by some turbulence. Bad. It wasn’t like the part in Home Alone 2 where everything’s shaking just enough for Catherine O’Hara to realize she left Kevin at home, this was crazy. The kids, being at that age where mortality hasn’t even been established yet, start pretending to be the pilots of a plane THAT IS GOING DOWN. “We’re crashing! We’re going down!” They yelled and giggled as the cabin shook. “Oh no! The wing’s on fire!” one of them screamed into his hands and as I looked out the window to make sure they were just pretending I wondered whether it was possible to jettison people mid-landing.
“Okay, heeeeerrrreeee weeeeee goooooo!” the actual pilot yelled over the loudspeaker and we dropped. Dropped onto the runway and began fishtailing. People around me are praying, hyperventilating, and mouthing words with their eyes scrunched up tight. I’ve got the people on either side of me holding my hands in a death-grip and I am frantically re-establishing my relationship with God as the two little kids decide to jump their game forward in time and begin to gleefully yell “We’re dying! We’re dying! There’s plane everywhere! Oh no! Oh no! We’ve crashed!” I am seriously weighing the pros and cons of my last moments on earth being used to toss children from a moving plane.
In a braking motion that could only be described as Starsky-esque we finally come to a complete stop. The cabin breaks out into applause with everyone crying and hugging. Everyone but me. We were applauding the pilot for getting us through a situation that he put us in. This pilot wasn’t Sully Sullenberger. O’Hare isn’t the fucking Hudson River. We could have been deferred to another airport, but you put my life in danger just so we could be on time. Fuck that. FUCK. THAT. Flying will never be the same for me again.
And what’s the deal with airplane food. Amirite? Amirite?
