I have a phobia of only two things: bees and flying.
In life, the bees aren’t too big of an obstacle. I keep my distance from flowers to the best of my ability and when my earnest attempts at avoidance fail, I run screaming and flailing my arms in another direction.
The flying is a much bigger problem.
Two things only have proven to have any calming effect when nature gets bumpy at 35,000 feet: Xanax and cat pictures.
Neither are a fool-proof solution since prescription pills are hard to get outside the good old US of A, and fellow passengers tend to stare when you start frantically thumbing through a notebook full of print-outs of the best kittens of Reddit.
About a year ago we were disembarking from our Dublin —> Barcelona flight after a much needed break from my Master’s program. I turned to C and said “I never want to get on another plane again.”
It would be amazing if I could say: “and I never did, THE END.”
Sadly, I’ve actually boarded 15 flights in the interim.
That Christmas trip was a turning point though. After nearly ten years teaching English in Spain, Argentina, and Vietnam, what I was really feeling was a sense of fatigue.
I was tired of living out of a suitcase, sick of constantly planning the next move, and up to here with avoiding acquiring personal belongings because I would just have to give them away when the time for that move came.
Thankfully, it turned out C felt the same, so we started discussing the possibility of [!!!] staying in one place for a while.
So here we are, and for the first time in almost ten years I’ve unpacked all my belongings in one country and I’m contemplating buying a Wok.
And though I know it’s not in the cards to avoid airplanes forever, I have the temporary excuse of waiting for my Irish residency before any more trips abroad can even be considered.
That’s a good feeling.