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I hate flying.
I hate everything about it.
Since I was seven, it's terrified the living fuck out of me. Even now, nineteen years later, I still get the same sweat-inducing, gut-churning panic before a flight.
Too bad I just scored a promotion at work that means I'm going to be doing a lot more traveling.
And the trip I'm currently on is a real doozy.
I travel a lot for work as it is, but I've already promised myself I will never, ever complain about the six-hour flight from New York to LA again. Because while flying from one side of the country to the other isn't fun, it's got nothing on traveling to the other side of the freaking planet.
The thing is, I'm not just a bad flier, I start freaking out well before I get to the airport. The low-level nerves begin in the weeks leading up to the trip, but things really kick into high gear the day before the flight.
Usually the day before is when the first big wave of anxiety hits. Up until that point, I can convince myself that the flight is stilla while away. But tomorrow ain't a while away. There's no way to spin that. It's freaking tomorrow.
The twenty-four-hour lead-up to takeoff is almost as bad as the flight itself.
Almost.
I do everything I can to take my mind off it, but it's hard when you have to do trip-related things like packing, confirming flights, and doing any last-minute checks.
Dinner the night before?
Forget about it.
By the evening, I can barely hold anything down. That's how you can always tell if something's wrong with me. I'm a master at brushing off concern and putting on a display of being okay. But if I push a plate of food away, things are terminal.
My best friend Brant always calls to check in on me at some point, too. He's good like that. We've known each other since we were kids, and no matter how busy he is with his acting career—well, former career at this point—he always rings, and we spend a few hours shooting the shit, talking about anything and everything other than the impending doom I face the following day.
After packing, showering, not eating dinner, and doing my damndest not to spiral into a meltdown, it's time for bed.
Notice how I saidbedand notsleep?
Because, even though I've been known to sleep through a snowstorm that almost tore the roof off our house, the night before a flight I'm lucky if I get a few hours of shut-eye.
And it's never that good, solid sleep, you know? It's the kind of sleep you suffer through when you have a big day ahead of you and you need to rest but your brain refuses to cooperate, which, ironically, only leads to more stress and, ultimately, barely getting any deep sleep at all.
All of that, and onlythendo we reach D-day.
Departure.
I always take an extra dose of my anxiety meds first thing in the morning, along with a few additional pills to help me out. All prescribed and totally legit, of course.
Where possible, I try to book an early flight to get the damn thing over and done with quickly. My flight to Sydney, Australia, left JFK just after nine in the morning.
That meant getting up before five to shave, shower, and get ready. I'd love to say I'm a morning person.
I am not.
Once my ride arrived, the nerves launched into a new stratosphere. The streets of New York were still pretty quiet as we drove to the airport. Quiet by New York standards at least. But my palms were sweaty, and my chest was tightening with dread. On top of everything else, I was worried about being late for something I needed to be three hours early for. That always messes with me.
I got to freak-out central, a.k.a. JFK Airport, where I had the ever-so-joyful experience of checking in for my flight and going through security. I have to say that, thankfully, this time it wasn't as bad as it's been in the past.
The downside of breezing through security, though, was that it meant I had a lot of spare time on my hands. And when the business lounge beckoned with all sorts of alcoholic goodness, who was I to decline?
