Every time I walk down the jet way, I think that this will be the time that I am not scared. That my stomach will not start with the acrobatics. That my breathing and heart rate will stay within normal bounds. That I will not be the one who grasps at the armrests for dear life. I dare even think that I might catch up on a nap.
Yesterday wasn't the day. Wendy told me that I looked calm and I guess that is what matters. But inside I was fighting a battle to not reach up and place my hand on my shoulder blade, the feeling of skin on skin, to not retreat into my inner world of silent prayers and a desperate hope that we would land soon.
The rationalizations for our less than smooth flight are numerous. Perhaps it was the bad weather that was moving into Atlanta. Maybe it was just the small size of our 45-seater plane that made it prone to being tossed around. Maybe it was the fact that our pilot was only 4 feet tall and could only reach one control at a time.
And maybe it is just that we weren't meant to go screaming through space in an aluminum can.
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