I think I’m getting old. I have noticed that I am becoming increasingly aware of how high 33 thousand feet actually are, and that I occasionally tear up right before take off when I think of what my husband would do if anything were to happen to me. I had never had these feelings before this year.
Over the past four weeks I have been on 10 flights, 40% of which were international, adding up to approximately 20 thousand miles. That’s more than I normally travel in a year under normal circumstances. At the same time, it is safe to say that I am a seasoned flyer: I have been on a plane every year since I was 7 years old (maybe even before that). I am used to the routine, I know how to pack compactly, I even have my toiletries 100% duplicated and ready to go at any given point in time, and I know that turbulence is just caused by a few clouds. So why the sudden dread to fly? Why the fear that something will happen? Why the tears?
I guess I’m just getting to a point in my life where I would leave a lot behind. If something were to happen to me, my husband’s life would change forever. He doesn’t deserve it. He deserves to be happy and to have a great life. If I were gone, his wonderful spirit would be destroyed. I guess it just gets harder: once I have children, my worries will increase exponentially. Maybe I’ll get to a point some time when I just refuse to take this kind of risk, and just not travel. Could that ever happen?
It’s funny to think how not-worried I am about myself when it comes to my own doom: when I die, I will be dead. Whether I did the things I wanted to do in life is so irrelevant. I can only think of what would happen with my greatest achievement to date: creating a happy life for my husband. I just love him so much.
Alright, getting on the last leg of my flight. I’ll get some McDonald’s for lunch to eat on the plane. So yummy and yucky at the same time, isn’t it?
ina