Two On the Aisle

In just three days I will voluntarily enter, along with about a hundred other people, a small metal tube with an outer skin no thicker than aluminum foil, stuff myself into an uncomfortable seat for five hours or more, invite the possibility of a blood clot in one or both legs going straight to my heart and killing me, and if absolutely necessary, use a toilet that is more like a toddler's potty seat. 

I'd like to believe my husband will be sitting at my side if the worst happens, but if history is my teacher he forgot to get seat assignments and I'll be clutching some stranger's hand in my final moments. Making matters worse, I have paid handsomely to engage in this horror show I call "My Flight to Seattle."

I hate flying, but not just for all the appropriate reasons everyone else does; I earned my stripes during a bad experience years ago. My first flight, when I was 22, ended with a downward spiral into an emergency landing in an open field near Frederick, Maryland. Eastern Shuttle, New York to DC, down and out the emergency chute, FBI agents swarming the site, bomb squad spraying foam.  (I have told this story so many times, this is all I can manage anymore.)

Anyway, if all goes well on Sunday I will spend the week visiting with one of my very best friends who I have not seen in ten years.  Otherwise, I leave this note to my son: Our will is on the desk in the guest room. Please feed the cats. Rufus is at the kennel. Love you, xxxx, Mom.