Maybe I would not mind so much if I were in First of Business class, hell, then I may even look forward to these flying days, but in general, for some explicable reason, I hate them. Like Old Year’s Eve hate them.
The angst is not the actual flying – its the anticipation of getting off the ground. The entire day is a ball of nerves, not sure what to do, if I have time to do anything, knowing I have to get to the airport, freaking out and texting those I love, goodbye, I love you, I love you and then of course, the angst of getting some awful person plonking themselves down next to me for the next twelve hours. Why would anyone do this?
I don’t sleep on a plane. Watch movies all night till my eyeballs are so dry the lids won’t close. Eat crappy sweets and awful food and feel bloated. I cry in the dark to sad songs, miss those gone and those still there, and wonder what the hell is happening to my life, like the answer is going to come to me and I am going to land with new resolve. Never happens, even when the flight is for some glorious holiday. Happens all the time. Is it because we have all this time …
I have no fear of dying or something like that. As long as I don’t have half an hour of knowing it’s going to happen. I think it’s because I always feel flying days are a sense of leaving, someone, what I know, the habit of sameness. Out of my comfort zone.
So I count the hours and fret about chargers, passports, if my luggage is overweight, if someone is going to search my stuff and I have to take my boots off at security. That criminal feeling. I meander air side like an idiot, shall I buy, not to buy, why would I want to visit John Lewis in the airport, or eat anything that will plague me during the flight.
Flipping paranoid I am. Sad to be leaving I am. And when I am there … all is good. Love travelling.
Only a few more hours to go before I head for the airport. Am I the only one who feels this stupid, giddy, nervous and frankly desperate on flying days?