One of the things that has always irked me is the reaction of people after they discover that I don’t fly. I’ve heard every comment you can think of at least 100 times. “Statistically, you’re more likely to die in a car crash than a plane crash.” “You know, they make drugs for that kind of thing.” “We should just B.A. Baracus you and get you on a plane.” “Have you ever even been on a plane before?” Ok, no, I have never been on an airplane before, but in my defense, I also have never tasted shit, but I’m quite certain that I don’t want to eat it.
I’m seriously well passed the point of being entertained by this situation. At first it was kind of funny to say that I preferred travel by ostrich or sea turtle because I find my humor to sway towards the absurd at times, but now it’s become quite obnoxious. While not as personal as asking someone if they’ve ever masturbated to hentai, it’s still quite offensive to make such a production out of my fear. It’s certainly not something I broadcast, so I don’t appreciate the interrogation. There are plenty of irrational fears in life, so why is my fear of flying such an improbable mental defect for people to process? Would they be any more put off if I was afraid of plastic, or perhaps if I was afraid of feline zombies with a penchant for ball hair?
So it’s time to put this bullshit to bed and be done with it. You want to know why I’m afraid of flying? Well, the first thing to understand is that I’m not afraid of flying. I’m afraid of crashing into a mountainside and exploding, more specifically, or any variation of a scenario where a plane comes to a sudden and unexpected stop. Statistically, it may very well be more likely that I would die in a car crash than a plane crash, but statistically I’d also be more likely to encounter a garden variety fender bender than a fatal crash. And guess what? I can walk away from a fender bender. If a plane gets into a fender bender, th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks. Behind the wheel of a car I at least have some control over my fate. In a plane, an unlucky roll of the dice just means you’re dead. I have no interest in playing with those odds, thank you very much.
But where did my actual fear come from? I never tell this story, but the truth is that this fear came to life on January 28th, 1986. As a school project, our class gathered around the TV in our room to watch the launch of the Space Shuttle Challenger. It was so exciting! We were going to watch the launch and then spend a day doing special projects centered on outer space as our theme. 73 seconds into its launch, the Space Shuttle Challenger suffered from an O-ring seal failure and exploded into pieces on live television. Say what you will about costume malfunctions and Britney Spears music videos, but I can assure you that nothing warped my mind as a child more than this. From that day forward, I knew that I would never fly. Certainly I am now old enough to realize that airplanes and space shuttles are apples and oranges, but unfortunately the fear has been implanted with little hope of ever being uprooted.
So in summary, just give me a break, that’s all I ask. While whisking away on an airplane at a moment’s notice may be as easy for you as flicking a light switch, to me it’s more like having sex on a unicycle. Possible, but not necessarily a great idea.
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