Aviatophobia

I think everyone I know at this point is pretty much aware of the fact that I’m a nervous flier.

This wasn’t always the case, mind you. There was a time when taking to the skies was one of the most exhilarating things I was legally allowed to do. As a kid I’d be up on my knees on the seat peering out the window, eyes wide on takeoff, loving every second of how the plane was able to move so much faster than my parent’s old grey Audi ever could. I was like Maverick in Top Gun only with pigtails and saddle shoes, and the idea that I might not make it to my destination never even crossed my mind.

However as with cheap wine glasses and plastic shopping bags, the older I become the more I begin to acquire things I never thought much about before. Now, as soon as the plane starts to move I’m not screaming or praying or asking my seatmate if he thinks we’re going down (not yet anyway), rather, I’m keeping my eyes focused intently on the A section of The New York Times, unable to actually read it because my pulse is racing too fast (there’s nothing like feeling as though your heart is about to explode to remind you just how alive you really are, and just how fast – poof! – you might not be).

Until we reach cruising altitude I’ll admit I’m not thinking about much else aside from all the things I’d regret not having done (So much left unsaid! So much yet to experience!) if my plane were, in fact, to actually to lose a wing or have its engine drop out unexpectedly. (I do stop occasionally and look around and wonder why no one else appears to be concerned. Aren’t they the least bit worried? Is it possible that I’m the only one on this plane who isn’t entirely at peace with all of the things in their life? Maybe I really should pick up a copy of The Secret).

Of course, I am aware of the fact that I’ve never actually seen a news story about a plane having lost a wing in mid-flight, but then again, I never said my fears were entirely rational. And that’s the thing, most fears aren’t rational. If we really stop to think about all the things we’re afraid of – taking a chance on a new job or a new love or moving to a different city – we’re fools to be allowing fear to get in our way. These are the things of life after all, and yet, more often than not we find ourselves paralyzed.

I’ve been afraid (to name a few), of not living up to certain people’s expectations, of not accomplishing something important enough to define my life by, of not seeing enough of the world, of making a fool of myself, of not fitting in, of not being particularly very good at anything, of losing people, of being left behind, of getting my heart broken, of never finding love, of always loving the wrong people.

Curiously, I’ve never been in fear of losing my job, or becoming homeless, or going hungry. Just yesterday when I was on the subway thinking about writing this very post and contemplating all the things that I’m afraid of (come to find I’m also afraid of getting lost in thought and ending up at 242^nd street), I gave a dollar and my banana to a homeless man. He smiled and thanked me and I thought to myself: of all the things to really fear, why have I never been afraid of something as scary as ending up like this guy? In the face of homelessness being afraid of never seeing The Colosseum seems downright absurd. I hated myself immediately.

But we don’t think things like that can happen to us. Not us.  Things like that happen to other people. Nameless faces on our subways and streets, strangers in our newspapers and on CNN. And yet, somehow I’m fairly certain that when this guy was young and his life was full of promise and possibility, he didn’t exactly think he would end up on the uptown 1 train eating my banana for his dinner, either.

That’s why I keep getting on the plane. I keep getting on the plane and taking writing classes and hoarding travel guides and taking chances on men I know probably aren’t good for me, because I may be terrified, sure, who isn’t, but I’m not too afraid to live.

And that’s why when the wheels touch down, each time I tell myself that while I may not have any control over what happens at 38,000 feet, at least I can stop being so afraid of the things I can do something about when I have both feet firmly planted on the ground.

So the question to keep asking yourself is:
WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?!

And the answer has got to be:
Be brave, be brave, be brave. Always.