Aeroplanes

So, this past weekend I took a little trip to Houston, TX to see my very sweet boyfriend (this title is new and recently, mutually agreed upon...gasp!) Friday comes and I'm all excited and basically the equivalent of some extremely hyper golden retreiver puppy jumping and barking and wagging my tail and such. Airplanes, trips, and quality time! Oh my!!

Except for one thing...one very important thing. I am really, unequivically, TERRified of flying. And somehow....somehow my spastic, ADD brain always forgets this until the exact moment when we are careening down the runway going WAY too fast and I am absoluetly positive that the plane is about to fly apart w/ bolts, and sheets of metal and screaming innocent people going everywhere. My palms sweat. I grip the armrests and mutter shit, fuck, Hail Mary full of grace, under my breath and the person next to me looks at me like I am absolutely out of my mind, because I kind of am in that moment.

And then we hit the turbulence (because I can never, never, seem to be able to fly w/out going through some sort of torential downpour) This is when I really start to bargain. Which is interesting because I'm bargaining with a God that I'm not really sure exists, or what his agenda is, or if his name is really Buddha, but I DEFinitely bargain. I promise him that if I get off this wretched death trap and to the ground that I will never take another day forgranted. That I will go to church every Sunday, that I will stop swearing, that I will no longer have pre-marital sex. If he will just get me off the fucking airplane alive.

Then we're above the clouds, and I'm calm and self possesed. I'm envisioning myself as a world traveler, roaming with grace and dignity to places like Africa, India, France. I am strong, a survivor. I send peaceful vibes and smile graciously to those around me...and then we start the descent and its back to everything before. Grinding and gnashing of teeth as I become certain that the landing gear most defintely did not descend and we will be forced to do a belly flop on the runway amidst flying oxygen masks and panicked passengers, and then we land safely and securely and I get off the plane wanting to kiss the ground and collapse in exhaustion.

This was a one hour flight.

So I stay the weekend, and come home to NOLA Monday morning, resisting the urge to rent a car and drive the five hours back. Instead, I calmly board the plane expecting my brains usual torturous ascent to paranoia. But on this trip, I envision my BF beside me holding my hand and pointing out the window and saying as we bump through the air "Leah, look at those stupid, silly, clouds...they are so RIdiculous!" And I'm not calm, nor sure of myself, and I'm still pretty scared, but at least I can grin a little while wiping my palms. And this makes me happy. And this is why we now have an official title. This is why I like my boyfriend.