I Hate Airplanes

Posted by E

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Time for a little honesty. I hate airplanes. Not just air travel. Not just flying itself. I hate airplanes. I hate airports. I hate anything and everything to do with flying.

And not just your every day run of the mill hate, I'm talking full vitriol "Do I get to kill English" Mad Steven kind of hate. The kind of hate that's so rich and creamy you could melt it down and use it to make Rice Krispie treats.

The reason for this hatred is simple: fear.

That's right, I'm not too manly to admit that I'm terrified of airplanes. So scared that I get sick to my stomach just going to the airport to pick up friends. So horrified that I have to take handfuls of drugs just to get myself on a plane. So mind bogglingly phobic that every trip taken on an airplane ends in tears and near vomiting.

It's been this way for years. As a kid I LOVED flying. There was nothing more exciting to me than hopping on an airplane and feeling the ground melt away from me, soaring through the skies with reckless abandon. Oh sure, I would jokingly look to the wing to see if a gremlin was tearing it apart, but all in all I found it all rather enjoyable.

This all changed at the age of 21.

I hopped on a plane around Christmas of 1996 to head back to my old stomping grounds and spend some time with my childhood friends. I couldn't help but notice the sheer wall of all-encompassing panic that overtook me the second we were airborne.

This was no longer an enjoyable jaunt through the friendly skies, this was the tempting of fate, the spitting in the face of the gods all while being hurtled through the air in a metallic Tylenol coffin. I arrived at my destination rather shaken.

Whereas once flying had been a pleasant diversion, now it was almost unendurable. My friends could see the white pallor of panic borne across my face and all took turns trying to figure out just what the hell had spooked me so bad.

If only I had the answers.

I felt an overwhelming dread that entire visit, a horrific foreknowledge of what was to come; namely the return flight. I had become so jittery and inconsolable by that time that my friends propped me up at the airport bar and forced five or six drinks down my throat in the space of twenty minutes. All in the name of getting me to board the flight home.

You would think that this would abate over the years. Unfortunately for me (in more than one way) it hasn't. In fact, I found myself at a job a short time later that involved travel. Lots of travel. TONS of travel. I was soon the office joke, the punchline of a million guffaws due to my undeniable pussitude when it came to aviary travel.

But even in the midst of all this terror, I was able to find some humor in the situation. There are times when my affliction could cause downright funny situations.

Let me give you a couple.

About 8 years ago I took a flight from Amsterdam back home to the USA. I was returning from a three week stint in the Netherlands and was quite eager to get home. I'm not going to lie, YES, I partook in some of the luxuries that Amsterdam had to offer. But let's get something straight, I'm not stupid. There was no way in hell I would ever try and sneak any drugs back FROM AMSTERDAM. Might as well wear a giant flashing neon sign that says, "HEY DEA GUY, ARREST ME!!!"

But even though I would never dare bring the stuff home with me, I certainly had the look of the kind of guy that would imbibe of the local flavor. Dressed in my finest Pink Floyd shirt and having the disheveled look of a man who had taken too many drugs (just to get on the plane), I staggered from the plane down towards Customs and ultimately baggage return.

Luck wasn't with me that day, and as I stumbled out of the Death Tylenol, I noticed that all of my fellow passengers were geriatrics, straight from a lengthy tour of Europe. So after showing my passport and heading towards baggage claim, it was obvious where the attentions would lie.

Here we come down the elevator, towards the room with all of the drug sniffing dogs and armed security officers...

Old person.
Old person.
Old person.
Old person.
High looking guy with a Pink Floyd shirt.

It goes without saying that I suddenly found myself the center of attention. I did my best in my addled state (please note I was wasted off alcohol and Benadryl, NOT illegal narcotics) to be friendly and act coy. "How's it going, officers?"

I stood by the carousel with an officer and dog to my left, to my right and behind me. As each of my pieces of baggage came rolling towards me I had to pull them off the unit and hand them to each dog in order, so they could ascertain that I was not, in fact, attempting to smuggle four kilos of White Widow across the border.

On another occasion I found myself in San Francisco with one of our new sales associates, a young girl who had only been with the company a short while. She had certainly heard the tales of airline adventures to be had with E, but had never had to deal with them face to face. After three days in San Fran her and I made our way to the airport to make the cross country flight home.

"Hey, I'm gonna stop by the bar real quick, ok?" I asked, and she obligingly joined me.

I would say something along the lines of "I watched her face with bemusement as I guzzled back two beers and took a Benadryl," but the truth is better than fiction. In reality it was 4 bears and 3 Benadryl. And a partridge in a pear tree. And I sure as hell couldn't make out her face after all that.

From what I've been told she had to more or less drag me to the plane and have a stewardess assist her in getting me to my seat. As far as I could tell it was a rather dreamy flight. The fun really didn't start until we arrived at home.

This was an overnight flight, so I didn't actually make my way to the parking garage until around 5 in the morning. Mind you, I had drugged myself severely to get on the plane and had literally been asleep until the plane stopped. So once again I had that bedraggled look of unease that could possibly look to the uninformed like I was a bit unhinged, perhaps even dangerous.

The Marilyn Manson shirt didn't help.

I stumble my way through the parking lot, squinting through heavy lids in a lame attempt to find my car. I eventually succeed in doing so, but upon entering my vehicle I realize that I had left my lights on and was now left with no juice.

Off I go, wandering the parking garage looking like some junked up renegade, asking each and every person I see if I can "Get a jump".

In retrospect, I guess I can see why so many people were off-put by my appearance and why perhaps that wasn't the best choice of words.

Those were the days, I suppose. I'd love to pretend like I'll never board one of those monstrous things again, but I'm sure I'll be suckered into it at least one more time. I just know I'm gonna die in a crash. A three minute plunge towards blackest death.

Fuck planes.