I don’t like to fly. And by don’t like, I mean I would really rather not plummet 39,000 feet and splatter into an unidentifiable goop on the ground, thank you very much.

I know I’m a freak show flier.  I know.  I am totally the one white knuckling it in 5A you stare at from your ‘thank god I’m not sitting next to that hot mess’ seat in 8F while wondering if I’m all right.  And just for your information:  I’m not.

 I get so nervous, before and during flights that I actually sweat through an entire long sleeve t-shirt. No, not just the sleeves of the shirt, not just the back of the shirt, I soak an entire shirt from the neck to hem in sweat.  Which, by the way, is the reason I always wear a jean jacket when I fly.  It discreetly covers flop sweat quite nicely.

And here’s the thing: I don’t sweat.  Ever.  Not even when Betty, the 85 pound psycho, cycling instructor at the gym screams with veins popping out of her neck that she’s going make us pay for all those special treats we consumed during the weekend even though we’ve already been pedaling for 45 minutes.  I don’t sweat while having a really uncomfortable conversation with my friend about why her jeans might be a little more flattering if the rise didn’t reach her ribcage.   I don’t even sweat when I’m in the sauna. 

I.  Don’t.  Sweat.

I didn’t always hate to fly.  I remember being super excited when my grandma flew me to Florida I was 8 years old.   Out of all her grandchildren, she picked me and only me to visit her daughter who lived there.  She made all of my outfits and packed them pristinly in the new red suitcase she bought for me.  She told me we would visit a magical place called Disney World during our adventure and if I was really good, she would even introduce me to a whale named Shamu who did flips in the air.  But as we were walking on the plane, she asked my 8 year old self what I consider to be a tricky question:

“If you’re on the plane for 7 hours,” my grandma said, “how many times will you use the bathroom?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged.  “8 times?”  I mean, I was only 8 years old.  I thought 8 times in 7 hours was a really awesome answer.  But I could tell from the click of her tongue and the shake of her head that I had flunked the pop quiz. 

 ”No,” she scolded.  “You can only use the restroom once.”

Maybe that was the beginning of my fear of flying, I don’t know.  What I do know:  When my husband told me I was going to be on a plane for 10 hours one way because he won some fancy, schmancy trip, I stopped breathing.  I guess he’s really good at his job or something because apparently his company decided to send both of us on an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii. 

Why, oh why couldn’t I have married an underachiever?

I tell you all this for two reasons, one:  I’ve been gone a week and that’s why my posts have been a little light, and two: I so kicked that flight’s fanny!  I didn’t even pass out or strangle a flight attendant or anything.  Pretty impressive, even if I do say so myself.  But I will never fly there again, not even if David wins an island.

Aloha, Hawaii.   Forever.