Sunday I fly out to Wisconsin, and thus starts the annual cycle of fear.

I’ve talked way too many times before about my fear of flight, but it didn’t occur to me, until recently, how my fear of flight was effecting others.

Color me selfish, y’all, but it turns out, people hate traveling with me, so much so, that they’ve sat down and intervention’ed me about it, like, via skype, with like…webcams.

Because I needed to see their faces of concern apparently, when they say things like, we’re afraid you’re going to bring a plane down. Or, you’re why trains still exist.

So for starters, it isn’t even my fault I hate flying, it’s the airplanes. Of all the ways airplanes could travel, in the sky seems like the stupidest decision yet.

What, airplane, you think you can just get a running start then stay suspended up in the air by science?

Maybe science should stop dangling people’s lives in the air, and instead focus on more important things like making cancer go away, or finding giants we can ride on, because that, I would do.

andre the giant transportaion

It’d still be faster than a car because their steps would be huge, so like, getting to California is a four day car ride, or, like, twelve giant steps. And, it’d be safer because we wouldn’t be floating, we’d be riding in a giant Baby Bjorn, and unless the giant was drunk, which, let’s face it, it takes a lot to get a giant drunk, amirite, it’s basically the safest way to travel.

I’ve tried lots of different things to fly without incident. I’ve tried drinking, but I can’t seem to get drunk enough to stop being afraid, but not so drunk that I don’t end up asking old men to motorboat me in that little room where the flight attendants make the cookies.

I’ve been on Xanax for years, and while it helps take the edge off, it makes flying alone difficult, because I can’t be trusted to board or de-board planes successfully in my medicine cocoon.  Plus, it doesn’t stop my habit of asking the unlucky person sitting next to me if it looks like the plane is pointing down, or if they believe God has a plan, or if they think Rich Girl by Hall & Oates is an appropriate song to play at my funeral, to which they always say no, and I’m like, you don’t know anything about me or my old man’s money, so mind your own God damned business, asshole.

This year, for my birthday, instead of surprise parties or presents, my friends have gone in together to get me hypnotized so that I’m no longer afraid to fly.

I don’t like this idea. My great-grandma’s nursing home used to have these holiday parties for the residents and their families.  I always hated going because it smelled weird, and all the food they served felt like it had been pre-chewed.  The usual entertainment was a local high school choir, or some hack magician, but one year, they had a hypnotist. At first, I thought it was going to be cool, but then he tried to hypnotize this old guy, but it turns out he wasn’t hypnotized at all, he was unconscious in his wheelchair from a stroke, and we all had to leave and he died.

Now, I’m not so crazy to think that every time someone gets hypnotized, an old person dies (though I haven’t seen the data stating otherwise), but how is it am I the only one afraid to lay in an unconscious state on a strangers couch?

My friend, Meredith, who concocted this whole scheme, has promised to go with me and not laugh, mock or videotape me.

Unless she accidentally gets hypnotized also, and then we both end up naked and on Craigslist. I’m going to wear two pairs of Spanx that day, you know, as like a deterrent.

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