So I’m back from a week on a vacation; Marissa and I went on a seven-day Caribbean cruise. It was wonderful. There’ll likely be more to come from me about how it went, but this is the first thing I want to mention before I forget.
I hate traveling. Nothing about being on an airplane strikes me as being anywhere close to safe. So no matter how much Marissa tells me that it’s fine, these people have done this before, they’re professionals, etc., etc. – I see us constantly, seconds in the future, going down in flames and screaming at six hundred miles an hour into a mountainside. Even places where there’s no mountains, I imagine the world shuddering violently when it senses my approach and shooting a fresh, newly formed rock formation directly in the flight path of the plane I’m on. So, clearly, I’ve got an overactive imagination when it comes to these things. I see potential danger in geology, in shifting continents, for Christ’s sake, so imagine how I deal with anything else.
This is why I nearly had a panic attack and had to turn to Marissa for a ten minute nervous conversation when the flight attendant, near the end of our plane ride back to New Hampshire, came over the intercom and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please place your seatbacks in their upright and locked positions and buckle your seatbelts – we’re about to begin our final descent.”
OUR FINAL DESCENT?
Seriously? There’s no better way to put that? “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin our procedure for landing the airplane.” Or: “Ladies and gentlemen, in just a moment we’ll safely touch the aircraft down on the runway.” There doesn’t need to be anything final involved in this fucking announcement; I have no plans for this to be my final descent unless someone in the cockpit angles the whole deal wrong and we take a nosedive into the fucking control tower.
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