I’ve talked before about my fear of flying. Honestly, I haven’t stepped foot on a plane in about two an a half years, with what seems like good reasons. But just to differentiate, good isn’t always rational. For example, my best friend got married in June in New York and I drove there. From Texas. Because I didn’t want to fly. What should have been a 3 or 4 day affair turned into a week long cross country-ish road trip.
Over the past six months or so, I’ve slowly come around to the idea of flying. Not necessarily because I’m less afraid, but more so because I know that if something bad is going to happen, it’s going to happen. I’ve started to realize there’s risks around me every day. I could be hit by a car. I could die in my sleep. A million other terrible things can happy. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t, I can’t control that necessarily.
In comparison to all the negative things that could happen like, you know, death, dying in a fiery plane crash doesn’t sound so bad. Not that I would want to. By the way, if I ever do die in a plane crash and this blog post is used in some news snippet about my fiery plane death, then I hope my eternal soul will be happy about all of this coming full circle.
It may sound pessimistic, but it’s really just realistic. We all have to go some way because no one’s figured out how to live forever. Yet. The chances of a plane crash befalling anyone are pretty low. In fact, lower than driving a car every day. But let’s not go down that rabbit hole because I actually don’t have a car, so…
I don’t know if I’m quite ready to get on a plane tomorrow, but I am ready to at least entertain the idea of getting on a plane sometime in the next two years, which is more than I could say for how I felt over the past two and a half years.