Come Fly With(out) Me

Am I the only one who understands how completely insane it is to ride on an airplane?

Why is everyone else always acting so damn normal, like they aren't potentially minutes away from a tummy-churning plummet several thousand feet out of the air ending in a horrific fiery death?

If I'm not sedated with a nice cocktail of wine and Advil PM, flying could pretty much count as cardio for me, considering my heart doesn't stop pounding the whole time. And yet I sit there on the plane next to all these people who are just hanging out, having conversations, reading books, not clutching the armrest with a Vulcan Grip of Death (or whatever) and gasping like it's their last every time there's even a teensy bump.

I guess it does occur to me that I do all sorts of stuff that other people think is just as terribly abnormal as strapping themselves into a flying metal death tube several miles above earth.

Like when I mentioned to my friends at brunch on Sunday about how I ate an entire box of Life cereal in one day last week. They looked at me like I'd just told them I'd eaten an entire box of toenails.

(You know what though? If eating an entire box of Life cereal is as horrifying to them as flying is to me, perhaps I ought to rethink my position on it.)

(Nope, it's still delicious.)

I never made it to Mardi Gras, as flying standby in a blizzard isn't really conducive to such things. I did, however, make some excellent friends waiting in line for flight re-bookings for two point two hours.

Regardless of the lack of Mardi Gras, the official Fu Manch Shoes 28 Days of Virtual Rehab officially began at 12 pm on Sunday (before which I had the obligatory last glass of champagne with brunch, of course) and I'm on Day 3. So far, I haven't been shaking in a corner cranking butts and scratching at the invisible bugs on my skin...but the night is young.

Not to mention that tomorrow I've agreed with my friend Kelly to give up candy for lent. Despite my whole "not believing in Christ" thing.

CANDY! Talk about scratching myself and cranking butts.

And that's forty days. I mean, good god!

Although perhaps being cut off from my nougat I.V. cold turkey might be good for the alarmingly yoooge size of my ass lately.

(I may have to cheat on the no smoking pledge at some point here. Most people eat candy to combat smoking cravings.)

(Mmmm, I smoked this weekend, sooooo goooood....)