One of the perks of being married to an airline employee is that you get to fly for free. We live outside of Atlanta, the busiest airport in the United States, so it is pretty easy to fly off to almost any destination. There are direct flights here pretty much to any place in the United States and many cities around the world. Paris, Naples, Crete...all at my fingertips.
Except I hate to fly. Hate might not be a strong enough word for my feelings about flying. If I can avoid getting stuffed into that little tube with hundreds of other people and screaming kids, I am going to do it every chance I get and twice on Sunday. It would probably embarrass my husband if it were known how many miles we log in our car so I can avoid any part of the airport other than the outside drop-off and pick-up lanes.
This is not news to my husband. As newlyweds we left very early the day after our wedding to honeymoon in Jamaica. The first leg of the flight to the Miami airport was not too bad, but the idea of getting back into a plane and heading to Jamaica was almost more than I could stand. My poor husband sat with me in that terminal asking if I was going to do this or if we were going to need to rent a car and drive back to Jacksonville. After a very long pep talk with myself, I went and bought the most expensive little pack of Dramamine (seriously, I think I could have bought the equivalent amount of pot or some other illegal drug for what I paid for it!) and managed to get on the plane. There was a debate if we would be boating home, but I made it both there and back on an airplane.
I am surprisingly not that rare of a bird. There are several of my pilot wife friends that have the same "I would rather walk for the next 18 hours in high heels than get on an airplane" thoughts as I do. Any other white-knuckle flyers out there?
Except I hate to fly. Hate might not be a strong enough word for my feelings about flying. If I can avoid getting stuffed into that little tube with hundreds of other people and screaming kids, I am going to do it every chance I get and twice on Sunday. It would probably embarrass my husband if it were known how many miles we log in our car so I can avoid any part of the airport other than the outside drop-off and pick-up lanes.
This is not news to my husband. As newlyweds we left very early the day after our wedding to honeymoon in Jamaica. The first leg of the flight to the Miami airport was not too bad, but the idea of getting back into a plane and heading to Jamaica was almost more than I could stand. My poor husband sat with me in that terminal asking if I was going to do this or if we were going to need to rent a car and drive back to Jacksonville. After a very long pep talk with myself, I went and bought the most expensive little pack of Dramamine (seriously, I think I could have bought the equivalent amount of pot or some other illegal drug for what I paid for it!) and managed to get on the plane. There was a debate if we would be boating home, but I made it both there and back on an airplane.
I am surprisingly not that rare of a bird. There are several of my pilot wife friends that have the same "I would rather walk for the next 18 hours in high heels than get on an airplane" thoughts as I do. Any other white-knuckle flyers out there?
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