The boy and I are going on vacation in July. He's got a GIS conference, and his work is footing the bill for a hotel for a week. So we're taking two friends and flying out to San Diego to kill a week and a half gallavanting around the city.
I plan on visiting the Nucleus Gallery while I'm there. I also plan on getting my picture taken in front of the National City, California sign for personal reasons. But my itinerary is subject to change until then. What isn't subject to change is my uneasiness with flying.
I wouldn't say it's fear. Flying just turns me in to an extremely religious person for a few hours. Every bump in the jet stream sends me into fits of prayer. To put my mind at ease, I do this little activity.
The first chance I get, I go to the bathroom. On my way there, I scrutinize my fellow passengers, count the children, look for nuns, look for people that may be murderers or rapists or Republicans. And then I make a judgment call. If the cumulative morality of all the passengers around me seems higher than normal, I feel safe. I think to myself, "God couldn't possibly knock a plane full of so many innocent chuldren and pious nuns and Jews out of the sky." If it looks like a bunch of nasty people who might as well all burn in a plane crash, I'm not so easy.
And I know it has nothing to do with their appearance or how many kids are on the plane...I know that a plane full of children and nuns is just as likely to go down as any other. But it makes me feel better.
And that, friends, is how I fly.
The first moments of silence.
7 hours ago