Airplane Limbo

I've never had a fear of flying. My mom has been terrified of getting on a plane since my earliest memories and thanks to her nerves, I was introduced at a young age to the disgusting taste of a Bloody Mary and was convinced they were the reason behind the sickness bags in all of the seat backs.

I get anxious before a flight, but only because a flight means I am no longer going to be where I currently am and within 3, 6, or 13 hours, I will be somewhere new and exciting. That's worth a few jitters. But after you pass through the body scans and the watchful eyes of Minos, only then can you proceed to those coveted mid-air moments of airplane limbo.

But during those hours mid-flight, I am uncommonly relaxed yet confident. Flying is this wonderful hanging suspension from real life. For those hours in that seat, you are completely separated from your phone, your computer, your life and who you are to all those people 30,000 feet below you. For those hours you can leave behind all of your responsibilities and requirements and just enjoy being in that scratchy seat, slowly eating your mini pretzels and the endless horizon of clouds.

But something else happens up in the air. Some strange overhead compartment of the heart opens up and critical judgment grabs its flotational seat cushion and follows the lighted pathway to the big, yellow slide. All emotions let loose. For me? I become more self-protective. On land, I consider the feelings and cramped legs of others. I offer a hand if needed and give out free smiles and assistance. On an airplane? I guard my seat with my life, hoarding the armrest, reclining to the fullest extent, nabbing the aisle seat and popping 2 sleeping pills. Oh I'm sorry window-seater, you needed to pee at hour 5 and you couldn't get by my passed-out body? Not my problem, I'll never see you again.

What turns me into a mean girl? Perhaps it's the infantile stage an airplane reverts you to. Here you are, a confident, successful human being and you are locked into a metal tube with filtered air blowing right into your eyes, shown to a small seat, given a blanket, a pillow, a sippy cup and a meal carefully compartmentalized so nothing touches anything else. Only when are you told, are you able to go to the bathroom or stretch your legs or even open your shade. As you leave behind one place for another, you also seem to give up your basic rights as a human being. What else are you to do?

Airplane limbo - not quite the green pastures and seven castles of the first circle all Christians are taught to fear - but rather just a moratorium of real life. With a definitive beginning and end, flying should be a comforting respite from the gravitational pull of responsibility and commitment, not a harrowing experience of fearful crashes and unidentified bumps and creaks.