I was in a big metal tube about 35,000 feet above New York City last week when it dawned on me. There were not enough pretzels.
After the nice woman gave me a polite smirk that I’ve no doubt was the first thing she was taught at flight attendant school, she handed me two little bags, each one filled mostly with puffed air and pretzel dust.
Not enough. Because I wanted to cram them down my gullet so I might choke and pass out. Anything to take away from the realization that I was only a few feet of scrap metal away from a free-fall from hell.
Was I the only one on this plane thinking about the fact that at any second a bolt might come loose? That a portion of the rickety floor beneath my flip-flops might break off and I’d suddenly find myself spiraling down through the clouds still strapped into my seat and screaming until my lungs exploded, my…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 