International Business Trip

I have a real job that is not blogging related.  That real job is sending me to the Manila.  In the Philippines.  In Asia.  And I have so much to say about it, but since I don’t blog about work I’ll just say in March expect some super awesome international blogging.  Primarily about sexy Asian ladies.  And maybe delicious ice cream.  Possibly together for my submission to Penthouse.

So, in lieu of actually talking about why I’m going to Manila, I’m going to talk about how horribly and embarrassingly frightened I am of the flight over there.  First some back story:

I hate flying.

Additional back story:

I come from a long line of flight phobics, by which I mean my father hates flying.  He’s been on a plane once and he tried to make them land halfway through the flight and he had to be sedated.  True story.  As a result of my father’s phobia we never took family vacations that involved flying.  I didn’t get on a plane for the first time until after college.  And it was horrible.  Not only for me but for the poor bastard that got stuck next to me on the plane.

Picture this, a 22 year old Jill gets on a plane in Logan headed to Chicago.  She is trying to look as normal as possible despite the fact that she is having a giant panic attack.  Coming down the center aisle is a rather attractive young man.  The following is running through my head (writing in the third person about myself is too hard):

Dearest Jesus, do not let this guy sit next to me.  There is a 99% chance I am going to throw up and I don’t want to do it in front of this guy.  Please Jesus.  I will sacrifice a million virgins to you.  And several goats.  And possibly some kittens.  Whatever you’re into.  Just don’t let this guy sit next to me.

And then that dude sat next to me.  And I cursed Jesus and vowed to spend my days making derisive Paint images of Him.

jesus

The guy sitting next to me was really nice.  Probably because he had no idea that I was about to lose my shit all over him.

So, the plane takes off and the meltdown begins.  It is epic.  It is me, head between my knees, crying, and praying very loudly.  My poor seat neighbor is horrified.  He looks over at me and asks, in a rather frightened tone, if I’m going to be okay.  I respond, no.  He asks if I want to hold his hand.  So, I do.  This is a bad idea.  You know how on cheesy sitcoms there is always this particular scene when a woman is giving birth?  The one where the woman is clenching her husband’s hand so tightly that she is about to break his fingers?  I did that.  In real life.  To a stranger.  And I wasn’t even pregnant.

Subsequent flights have not been much better.  And I’m pretty nervous/morbidly curious to see how the 20 hours in the air goes.  If I don’t die it will be a success.  I’m setting the bar pretty high.

Side Note: I generally do better when I fly with Ben.  Because Ben is an airline pilot.  Seriously.  I married an airline pilot.  The irony is not lost on me.  Or maybe it is.  I’m not entirely sure what irony means.

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