Puddles. Oh, my.

Somehow, magically, all of my academic-related stresses have melted away. I take my last final exam of the semester in less than two hours, and that doesn’t bother me in the least. I’m prepared, I know what’s happening in the world of female Renaissance artists. I’m down with writing three lengthy essays in two hours–that’s a piece of cake. But the new burden, the one cranking my shoulder muscles up into knots, is tomorrow’s big event: flying.

 

I was reasonably all right with the fact that I’d be getting on a plane (make that, two planes) tomorrow. It was only about four hours of air time, which is about how long it takes to drive to New York from Boston—a trip I have made more times than I can count, and that feels shorter each time I take it. The real issue arose when I realized that the connecting flights I am going to be taking are on small planes…ones that I’ve affectionately called ‘puddle jumpers’ in the past. The really fun fact about all of this? Besides the fact that I have extreme motion sickness (sorry, TMI!) and will likely feel every spot of turbulence, every movement of the size-challenged air vessel? That it’s the exact same model as the plane that crashed over Buffalo earlier this year. Now, I know that there were ice issues with that specific incident, but upon further research (because I like to agonize myself, apparently), I found that these planes have had consistent problems with their landing gear. I’m trying to find a way to breathe while thinking this, a way to calm down, but I just cannot, for the life of me, think about anything else. And my chest and shoulders are tight.

 

So without being excessively morbid, I’m going to say that if I make it safely–hurrah! And if you’re reading this, please make it known so that I can buy you a beer/tea/shot/cupcake (pick your poison) and bask in the deliciousness of not being in the air, where humans are (clearly) not meant to be [this is giving me flashbacks of turtles and Small Gods!]. And if I end up finding out if all those philosophy classes meant anything, or if I perhaps should have been more religious, then I’d like my yarn split amongst  the girls at knitting group, my books and limited funds to my brother, and everything else donated to charity.

 

I’m only (almost) 23, and have already drafted some odd attempt of a will on my blog, for crying out loud. I obviously have a terrible case of paranoia and unwarranted anxiety. Perhaps, if I do land on the beach, I can reap the rewards of making it, and spend a week, as Scott says, ‘drinking a martini, wearin’ a bikini.’ Ahh.

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