Boarding the Plane

Fear of flying was an acquired taste. It started on a business trip to Las Vegas when I missed my flight and didn’t know that getting on a later flight automatically bumped me off my scheduled return that same night. I was stupid about these things, having never gone many places before other than driving to relatives’ homes for make-believe vacations. Returning to the airport for the trip home, I was stunned to discover my name was not on the passenger list. I had to beg to get on stand-by for the last flight to Burbank. The alternative was sleeping on a chair in the airport and leaving my children back home to starve. It goes without saying that I didn’t bother to stay hydrated during the day while trudging up and down the trade show aisles, picking up fifteen pounds of junk mail. So not only did my back ache, a mighty migraine was making its way between the two hemispheres of my brain. That’s okay, I thought, once I realized I’d snagged the last seat in an overcrowded commuter flight. The hostess will bring water and I can swallow aspirin. No such luck. The plane was facing extreme turbulence and all attendants were required to remain strapped in their seats the entire trip. No problem, said I to myself. I’ve chewed aspirin before; I could do it again. And, if I was very careful, I wouldn’t start throwing up on either of the two behemoths seated on either side of me, squashing me into a capsule of headache on top and numb toes on the bottom. Since my arms were shoved like a praying mantis to my front due the girth of my row-mates, it was easy to keep nibbling on the aspirin tablet a few grains at a time. Oddly enough, the thought of turbulence didn’t disturb me due to the fact that I was so protected on either side. I knew if we headed into trouble these huge examples of masculine strength would be my protectors. Heck, if we crashed and I landed on either one of them, I’d just bounce my way to safety. The big challenge lay in getting pain medicine coursing through my body fast enough to convince my stomach to stay in place. Then we hit the “turbulence.” This meant all the air underneath the plane vanished into an alternate universe and we dropped straight down, not nose-diving, no, just a sonic elevator ride for hundreds of feet until we hit air again that happened be going sideways. So, drop down fast and then whiz jerk to the right, thus creating a perfect “L” maneuver that outperformed all amusement park horror rides. It was pretty scary but I had my buddies to protect me, right?. Glancing at the hero sitting next to the aisle, I noticed how white his knuckles were and the death grip with which he clutched our shared armrest. Looking at his ashen face, I realized there would be no comfort coming from that direction. Not to worry, there was always the giant to my left. Nope. Said ogre was crumpled into a sad little ball with his head pressed against the window, whimpering in fear. What’s a woman to do? I decided then and there two things: Survival was in my own hands because I could expect no help from my mighty crusaders. Also, if I lived to see daylight I would never board a plane again. Ever. Period. Well, we lived. And it became necessary to get aboard planes for professional reasons. So I convinced a reluctant doctor to prescribe just enough Xanax to get me to and from business travel for one year. In other words, there were 14 pills in my bottle. She made it abundantly clear there would be no more. The precautionary pills worked great. I don’t recall their strength but I do remember that I didn’t dare take one any earlier than ten minutes before boarding the plane because in fifteen minutes I’d be asleep. I would remain asleep the entire flight, only to wake briefly whenever an attendant would walk by with free sodas which I’d gulp down and then pass out again. This is how I made it all the way to Florida and beyond. I’d get in my seat, tuck my travel blanket under my chin, adjust my pillow, and wake up on the other side of the world. That lasted for years. Nowadays I travel cheap. There are no blankets and I bring my own pillow. I’m not as phobic, not quite, well, maybe, yeah. Only now my prescription strength is the lowest you can get, so I don’t have to worry about falling asleep before I strap in. Lately the big adventure isn’t riding IN the plane, it’s getting TO the plane. You know, going through Security. Here’s how it happens these days: I walk up to the TSA person who checks my ID and boarding pass and whisper “Since I’m seventy-five or older, could I please not take off my shoes?” The person looks at me and, depending upon what kind of day he or she is having, either smiles or frowns and gives me a card to hand to the next TSA official. As soon as the next TSA official receives my card, they ask me something. Even though I’m wearing my hearing aids, I still can’t hear them so I lean over the moving transport belt and whisper, “I’m sorry but I’m hard of hearing. Could you please repeat what you just said?” They oblige. “Do you have any metal parts on you?” “Yes, I’m wearing these big silver earrings.” Blank stares greet me. Then it dawns on me what they mean. “Oh, you mean do I have any metal parts INSIDE me?” “Yes.” “No.” “How old are you?” “Seventy-five.” “You could have fooled me, Sweetie. You don’t look a day older than fifty-three. Just walk on through that swinging gate.” This is written into the TSA handbook of required phrases. Every male TSA agent says exactly the same thing. “You could have fooled me, Sweetie. You don’t look a day older than fifty-three.” Not fifty-four, not fifty-seven, it’s always the same. Fifty-three. You can look it up for yourself. It’s in the handbook. This rule applies only to male TSA agents. Female agents are allowed to look like you’re wasting their time. That’s OK. I still get to walk through the swinging gates or the opened-for-me-and-people-in-wheelchairs access lanes. Getting older does have its benefits when it comes to getting on planes. I’ll leave you with the very best example so far, keeping in mind I’m not yet done with flying places. It was at a very crowded airport on a day when some big athletic event had just ended and half the population needed to get out of Oakland. It took an hour to get through Security. The TSA agents were seriously overworked and in no mood for any resistance. One poor soul was directing a long line of travelers to go left or right depending upon which scanner was available. I had placed my jacket and purse in the bin as directed and was waiting my turn, attired in one of the V-necked sweaters with attached cotton collars that were the fashion rage of the moment. By the time I got to the agent, I was as exhausted as he was. All I wanted was to get through, get my stuff, and get on the plane. He looked at me in outrage and said, “You have to take off your sweater!” “What?” “Lady, you have to take off your sweater!” “Really?” “Yes!” “Seriously?” “YES!” “If you say so,” I replied shrugging my shoulders. If TSA wanted me to go through the X-Ray machine in my bra, who was I to argue? So I started to obey. Once he realized what was about to happen, by the time the bottom of my boobs were available for pictures, the agent started waving his hands frantically, yelling “No, no, no, no, stop, Lady! Stop!” I lowered my sweater and looked at him. “Now what?” He lacked words. He just waved me through the swinging gate with a look of utter, total disgust on his face. Getting older has its advantages, folks. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.