Did you remember from your own childhood an interactive story that went a little like this:
I was in an airplane.
I fell out.
I had a parachute.
It wouldn’t open.
There was a soft haystack beneath me.
I missed the haystack.
And on and on, as far as imagination and your companion’s patience would take you.
I feel a little like that today. We’ve been having quite a drought here in Northern California, which is really bad. It started raining this past week, which is good. It’s been pouring for the last 12 hours, which is also really good, because mizzly-pizzly drizzle is useless when you have a drought. You need some gully washers.
The bad part, however, is that I’m due to board a plane this afternoon and (it’s true confession time here) I hate flying. I’ve always strongly disliked flying, but it’s gotten worse over the years. I couldn’t make myself get on a plane for a couple of years after 9/11. I have been flying in the past few years, but the Newark commuter crash the other day reignited my paranoia, and I’m really not happy.
Now the good news: some of you, my dear readers, are (or were) professional flyers and I simply take consolation in the fact that you voluntarily got into planes for a living. I’m going to have to assume that, at an emotional level that has nothing to do with the physics of lift and thrust, etc., you know something I don’t know. You’re smart and you fly — on purpose. Therefore flying can’t be that bad. If I keep telling myself that, I may actually be able to get on board that plane with a fair measure of confidence. Right? Right? (Crickets chirping.)