Here I was, 27 years old and I had never been on an airplane before. It's not because I was afraid to fly, per se, but it was the notion you have no control over anything. If you're in a car, bus or taxi and you feel uneasy, you can tell the driver to pull over and you can get out. Not so in an airplane. It's not like you can tell the stewardess to instruct the pilot to pull over because you want to get out.
All my friends who had flown before, said it would be a piece of cake but I'm here to tell you, my one and only experience has probably shortened my life-span by at least 10 years.
As I entered the cabin of the plane, I had to duck down and my first thought was this couldn't possibly be a Boeing 707, I'm only 5'11" tall and I have to duck? It was worse when I had to wedge myself into the seat with my knees almost touching my chest. My second thought at this point was I'd be in a world of doo-doo if I had to exit quickly, either in the case of an emergency or just to go to the bathroom. Since the flight was from Omaha, Nebraska to Las Vegas, Nevada and it was only going to take two hours, I figured I could handle it.
The first thing I checked for after rearranging myself was magazines to read and a barf bag for, well, you know. We were on the tarmac for about fifteen minutes while everybody else got "arranged", and I could feel the tension building in my brain, back and legs. As we took off and started speeding down the runway, I equated the feeling I had when an old boyfriend thought it would be funny to see how fast we could go from 0 to 100 mph in his Mustang.
Nothing prepared me, however, for the immediate bank we made on my side of the plane. We were sideways, with me looking at the ground. I would have reached for the barf bag except I couldn't let go of the arms of my chair. After leveling out, the man next to me asked if I would please release his hand, as I apparently had a death grip on the poor guy. As the stewardess approached, I asked her what she had to drink on board and to make it a double.
Everything settled down after my third Martini and as we approached Denver for a short layover, I just sat back, closed my eyes and relaxed. We seemed to be on the ground for a very long time when the pilot came over the intercom and stated we were having a minor, mechanical difficulty. On an airplane, I don't think there is such a thing, is there? After being on the tarmac for over an hour, the pilot came back on to say the altimeter was finally fixed and we were on our way. Now for those of you who don't know what an altimeter is, it's the gauge that tells you how high or low you are in the sky. As in, if you aren't on the right path for your plane, you're going to be seeing another plane up close and personal.
After another martini, I settled in for the final leg of the journey. As we descended into Las Vegas airport, I made the serious mistake of looking out the window. The first thing I noticed (since I was sitting over the wing), was some of the parts of the wing were moving in and out and up and down. My first thought was, there must be something wrong with the wing. Should it be doing this? I don't know, it's my first flight and I'm hearing loud engine noises and we're kind of going up and down. I'm thinking we're about to lose a wing, we'll have to evacuate, go down the slide and run for our lives.
I glanced over at the man next to me and he seemed totally oblivious to the peril we were about to face. I asked him if the wing was supposed to be doing this, he said "yes", we were fine. When we finally came to a stop, my inclination was to crawl over the man and knock everybody out of my way to get to the door. I would have if it wasn't for the Martini's and the pure fear that made my body shake so bad I could hardly stand up.
I spent a glorious week in Las Vegas. Saw some wonderful shows, ate great food and even won enough money to 'rent' a car to drive home to Omaha, Nebraska.