Rachael vs. The Airplane

If you know me, you probably know that almost nothing scares me more than airplanes. As in, writing that sentance just made my stomach churn and now I've lost my appetite for my delicious key lime pie and I won't be able to fall asleep tonight and I'll be exhausted at work tomorrow from the constant worry of my next plane ride that's months and months from now and I actually, literally feel like throwing up. Let me tell you about how I came to be absolutely, irrationally scared of flying. I can remember the moment I started to hate it.

I wasn't always such a baby about it. The first plane ride I remember was from Salt Lake to Knoxville and I sat in the window seat and was so blown away by how cool the sensation was. I was probably four or five and vividly remember being mesmerized. For like, twelve years, I actually liked flying and didn't mind the hassle of air travel. (Maybe it's because I'm a jaded, hardened adult {just kidding} [kind of] that I just. can't. even. deal with it.)

But then.

I was flying (again) to Knoxville to visit the Tennessee cousins with my sister Emma and it was a genuinely fun bonding experience. I had just graduated high school and Emma and I spent the entire flight mimicking the Delta flight attendant in the safety video that says "Smoking is not allowed." As we descended toward Cincinatti for a layover, the plane just circled for the longest time with what felt like really steep turns. Now I know that it was nothing more than a minor traffic hold up (although knowing that doesn't stop me from clenching my seat in sheer terror every time it happens) but I remember looking out the window (again) and thinking, nope nope nope nope nopenopenopenope.

Honestly, I can't figure out how that experience turned a cool cat into a weeping puddle of tears, but it did. All of a sudden, I was just scared to fly. I can't make a logical connection. But a fear of flying, I think, is 99% illogical. Before you launch into how much safer flying is than driving and how few planes crash compared to all the ones that land safely, etc., etc......save your breath. I don't care. The statisitcs are all well and good until the doors are latched shut and you're locked into your imminent death.

I mean, you can use your imagination to work out what there is to be afraid of. I don't need to spell it out to you. Big metal tube, thousands of feet in air, unpredictable weather, mechanical issues. And so on. The usual suspects.

Not a pretty picture

I think probably the next flight I took was when I went to China several months later, and to be brutally honest, the anticipation of having to fly home ruined my summer the tiniest bit. The flight home was mostly uneventful except for IT WASN'T AND I ALMOST DIED. OK maybe not, but there was a storm in Salt Lake that night and we almost rerouted to Boise but the pilot decided to play puppet master instead and toy with our lives by landing in the middle of Hell itself.

The turbulence was so brutal that the carts and flight attendants were being thrown to the floor. I was actually crying in my seat, eyes shut, mourning the fact that I would die before seeing my family again and my friend Kindra was peacefully sleeping across the aisle from me. I still can't believe a person can sleep while her head is being whiplashed around like a rag doll. I almost fell down the terminal 2 escalator in front of my family because of my jelly legs and chattering teeth.

Let me lay out a typical trip for an aviophobe like me. First, you explore any other form of transportation possible. Wedding in California? Even if the plane tickets are cheaper than gas, you'll absolutely insist on the 12 hour drive, although the stretch from Vegas to Barstow makes you want to claw your eyes out. Fancy a weekend trip to Scotland from London? One word: trains. Which, by the way, I love. I wish there were more trains in the States.

Anyway, if you can't avoid flying (a necessary evil sometimes), you will spend the weeks before your trip agonizing, weeping, and anticipating every possible worse case scenario. Every time you are on the highway when a plane descends for landing, you will scream and squel (screuel?) and watch in fascination. You will become oddly obsessed with planes and plane crashes. You will watch them on YouTube until your husband has to turn off the computer and tuck your simultaneously fragile and adrenaline-pumped body in bed while you rock yourself to sleep. The night before your flight, you WILL melt down in the candy aisle and openly cry while leaning against a stack of Peach-O's, prompting your husband to make a confused call to your parents and consult the possibility of an emergency overnight Xanax prescription. You'll make polite conversation with whoever is driving you to the airport but in your head you'll want everyone to just shut up so you can concentrate on not dying.

I should note here that all of the usual irritants of air travel are wildly exacerbated when you are afraid of flying. More specifically, airports. What can be an annoying experience turns into a downright hell hole. Again, my breath just quickened thinking about it. The noise, the rushing, the announcements, the gate TV's, the flashing departure and arrival boards. CAN EVERYONE PLEASE BE QUIET? I CAN'T TELL IF I'M HAVING A HEART ATTACK WITH ALL THE NOISE. Of course, my voice comes out in a jittery gurgle at check in, at security, at the gate.

I remember my mom and I flying to Amsterdam a few years ago out of the worst little airport in London called Luton. Of course, our flight was early in the morning and in typical Ely fashion, we showed up late. Because we were rushing and I didn't feel like I had time to adequately prepare mentally, I was especially freaking out. We were in a long line at check in, like, 10 minutes before boarding, and an announcement kept blaring about extra security measures and being cautious about unattended bags, which in my mind equated to bomb bomb bomb BOMB BOMB we're going to die! Naturally. I was so keyed up and I felt like the whole airport was collectively keyed up too and since everyone was nervous and scared in my mind, obviously something terrible was going to happen. In reality, I'm sure everyone was calm except me.

For precisely that reason, I always insist on showing up to the airport several hours early. Check in. Breathe. Security. Breathe. Obligatory Cinnabon treat. Breathe. Reading People magazine at gate. Breathe breathe breathe. I showed up to the airport in Beijing literally five hours before takeoff and ended up sitting on my luggage forever just waiting for check-in to open.

Takeoff and landing are always the worst parts. Once we've been cruising for a good hour, I can finally relax a little bit and the color returns to my cheeks slightly. I'm sure this is because biologically speaking, your body can only handle so much adrenaline. I have legitimately wondered if this much stress on my body will kill me before I turn 50.

During takeoff, while everyone is getting comfy and taking off their shoes and putting on their eye masks, I am sitting on the edge of my seat, shoes still on, hands on armrests, ready to spring into action when the emergency evacuation happens. I am full on in fight or flight mode, my heart racing, sweat gathering in my armpits, the whole shebang.

Although Eric has now strongly encouraged me to practice breathing techniques and listening to those wind chimey relaxation noise makers on my phone during takeoff, so now you'll see me on the edge of my seat, shoes on, hands on armrests with headphones jammed in my ears, rocking back and forth.

Relying on my trusty meditation harmonium

I used to take sleeping pills during taxi in hopes of conking out and missing the whole ordeal, but since I get so wound up anyway, it just makes me nervous and groggy. Also, I realized that--of course--I can't fall asleep. That would be irresponsible. It's my civic duty to be alert and listening for any chimes, dings, engine failures, or other signs of death so I can alert the pilot and save the plane. And did you know that worrying yourself sick during takeoff actually reduces the chances of crashing? Yeah, it's a thing.

One time, flying home from India surrounded by all of my friends, I decided to take double the dose of Ambien so I could sleep double the time and be double relaxed. The next hour was spent sobbing, wondering why the plane was cruising down a fiery spiral staircase to the ocean, asking the flight attendants why a sheep had to die to make my fleece blanket and why she had three eyes, making weepy declarations like "my dad sings me this song every night before bed!" and generally being the object of everyone's amusement. A YouTube sensation in the making.

So I never took sleeping pills again. I've learned that it's better to be worried and alert than worried and dopey.

My *feelings* toward air travel become a lot messier because I. LOVE. TO. TRAVEL. There is nothing that sparks my excitement more than planning an adventure, most of which are expensive and overseas. Sometimes I feel like.....what's the point of life if I'm not saving up for and planning my next trip? The sign of an emotionally well-adjusted adult, right?

Anyway, this is obviously another post for another day, but now that air travel is so available to everyone, how can I not take advantage of that to see as much of this beautiful earth as I can? I know some people avoid flying altogether, and I'm pretty darn proud of myself for not letting my fear stop me from living my life. If it means taking twenty years off my life (I really wasn't kidding about that), or if I actually do die in a freak aviation accident, at least my life will have been full of adventure. Not to be melodramatic, but the legitimate, all-consuming anxiety I get from flying feels like a sacrifice. First world problems, right? But at least I'm sort of facing my fears.

I just read a book called Cockpit Confidential. You've probably seen it in an airport bookstore. It is genuinely one of the most enjoyable, hilarious books I've read. Like, laying on your bed stifling guffaws because everyone else is asleep hilarious. It's written by a pilot (who's also a fantastic writer) and it answers any and every question you could ever have about flying, in layman's terms. It didn't necesarily make me less afraid of flying (logic, remember?) but it made me more aware of the whole "air travel theater" as the author calls it, so it's not such a foreign experience.

So in conclusion, if you're like me, I would recommend Cockpit Confidential, I would recommend those cheesy relaxation apps on your phone, but please stay away from Ambien and YouTube videos of plane crashes. You will only have yourself to blame.

About a book

Books, book, books. If you don't know me or haven't bothered to look at my header, I love reading. Fiction, non-fiction, memoirs, self-help, magazines, whatever. I love 'em all.

I think I have always liked to read, but it definitely did not become magical to me until Mrs. Melville turned off the lights one day in 3rd grade, had us gather around a chair, and started reading out loud an up and coming book called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Well, obviously after she finished the book, my brother and I made my mom go to Costco to get Chamber of Secrets and Prisoner of Azkaban. I remember us waiting for her to pull into the driveway and then running out, yanking the passenger door open and grabbing the books, arguing about who would read the second one first (it was me. It was always me.)

And so began my love for books. When a new Harry Potter book came out, there were only three or four nights of staying up late, feverishly running my eyes back and forth across the page before it was over. So I read lots of other books to fill in the gaps.

Taming that wild stallion into an HP lover

 P.S. Remember my favorite birthday gift of all time? I whipped them out last summer and read the whole series again along with my mom, my best friend, and my husband, all of whom had not partaken of the wizarding world until then. I converted all of them at the same time. I truly, honestly, proudly think of that as one of my happiest accomplishments.

There have been many books over the years. I know this is trite, but I don't know how else to say it: they really are an escape for me. Whether my day is stressful or worry-free, I am always in the mood for a good book. It transports me out of my world for just an hour or so, so even if I am stuck in the same old routine, I don't feel stuck. I don't have to stay put to stay put. 

I am the most obsessive reader. When I am reading a good book, I can hardly think of anything else. I count down the minutes at class or work so I can go snuggle in my bed and become a part of my book world again.

The characters are like, my honest-to-goodness friends. As in sometimes I lay in bed and leak tears on my sheets if I think about my character being sad.

And I always, always have to give myself a few days after reading a book before starting a new one so my fiction friends don't feel betrayed and so I can mentally prepare to move on.

Also, real talk: when I read lots of books, especially that are written beautifully, I find myself thinking grand existential thoughts that are eloquently written out in my mind. I could be mentally criticizing my hair and turn it into a Shakespearean garbled monologue. Don't judge.

Got my book, got my blankie, awake before anyone else...does it get better than this?

When Eric and I first got married, we were living in an apartment with no TV and no WiFi except in the lounge, which was conveniently close enough to go do homework in, but just a little too much of a hassle to walk down to just to browse the inter webs for no good reason but boredom. So I read quite a few books and it was heaven. In the summer, I would take a walk every night to this little canal in our neighborhood and just sit by the water and read until it got dark. 

This year, we have lived in two apartments with WiFi and our apartment now has a nice big TV with cable. Guess what? I haven't read very many books this year. Did Netflix do this to me? Ah, Netflix. While I love reading, I have discovered that watching Netflix is just...easier. So I tend to resort to that when I am tired or bored. I don't even want to admit how many shows I have watched all the way through on Netflix this year. Do you know how many books I could have read in that time? 

So I am trying to change that, without going crazy pyscho let's-get-rid-of-all-our-technology. I think they call that strategy self-discipline. 

Reading for work. Not a bad gig. 

Anyway, I think I have found the perfect book to remind myself why I love to read more than watch TV. I have been reading it nonstop this week. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. My mom has been telling me to read it for years and I have to say I have been missing out. 

I am not quite done with it, but if I may be so bold as to put it in my top 5 favorite books already...well, then...I will. 

It doesn't have such an exciting plot. It's a coming of age story where the beauty lies in the writing style, the meticulous description of early 20th century New York, and the flawed characters you come to love and identify with, no matter how rich or poor, or young or old you are. 

I can't remember the last time I was this swept up in a book that I was dreading the end of. Which reminds me that reading truly is one of the greatest joys in my life. 

Reading The Economist one morning in Ireland and feeling like a real life adult. Strangely, also feeling like an old pipe-blowing british man who wears tweed blazers with elbow patches.

But enough with this Shakespearean garbled monologue. I have a book to finish. And a stack of books to read after that. 

Expectations vs. reality and new year resolutions and stuff

So here's how the new year's resolution thing usually works around these here Rachael parts:

I publicly lament the whole thing ("they never work/they're not realistic/ugh, the gym in January, am I right?")

And then I dash to Target, buy a brand new pretty notebook for a brand new me and write dreamy and unrealistic ways to make a better Rachael for the new year to come. In fact, my new imaginary Rachael usually ends up having the lifestyle of Zooey Deschanel by the time next Christmas rolls around.

Expectation

Of course, once Christmas does roll around again, it's just me, regular Rachael, sitting indian-style on the couch with her frizzy hair and glasses in her old Christmas jammies. Why does this happen every year?

Reality

So I have been thinking good and hard about how to have realistic expectations this year because I do want to be a better me this year without falling into the new year resolution stereotypes.

A big part of my plan for this year revolves around a book I read this year called The Power of Habit. So good, btdubs. Please read it. Anyway, a whole chapter talks about keystone habits, which are small habits that we make that have a positive snowball effect, causing us to make other better habits.

I know from past experience that my most effective keystone habit is waking up early. For the record, I hate being jarred awake at 6 a.m. by my naggy alarm clock with the passion and fire of a thousand angry ex-girlfriends. There is nothing worse than having to get up earlier than you were ready to, out of a warm, toasty bed under a large pile of sheets and comforters that make you feel like nothing bad can possibly happen to you while you're buried under them, whether you are on the blissful verge of falling asleep, dozing back off at 4:30 and knowing you have a couple more hours, or just peacefully coming out of a good nights rest while still grasping at  the remains of your "winning a shopping spree at J. Crew" dream.  I love to wake up early, so this is no sacrifice to me at all.

To the unsuspecting bystander who didn't know there were two sisters deep under those blankets, this looks like an abandoned bed on the roof of a home in St. George and not a blissful haven of warmth that stands for everything good in life

Anyway, when I am in the habit of waking up early, my whole day goes so much more smoothly. I tend to be about a million times more productive and have the energy and motivation to do things like clean and cook and pay bills and exercise.

So instead of making a whole list of things I want to do and Rachaels I want to become, I am solely focusing on lights out by 10:00, lights on by 6:00, no matter how open my morning is. I am pretty positive that if I can turn this into a habit, it will cause a chain reaction and spill into other less organized areas of my life.

One concrete goal. Easy enough? Duh, since I don't have any problems waking up early, I definitely don't need you to wish me good luck, so save your breath.

Well, I totally had something else I was going to write about, so that ended up kind of being a rant. I'll try again tomorrow. It's already 1:00 a.m.

Dang it.