dailydiatribes

I dropped Tim off at the airport this morning and as of this writing, he is probably winging his way toward Las Vegas.  Please do not bother with the "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas"; like I've never heard that one before!!  This was his first ever "business trip".  Bayer has hired him as a veterinary advocate; he gets to go to meetings and tell other veterinarians how to use Bayer products, or better yet, how to sell a whole lot of them, thereby increasing Bayer's profit margin to 80 gazillion!!

As I was driving him to the airport, we reviewed safety procedures.  "Count the seatbacks between you and the emergency exit," I told him.  "You have a narrow window of time to get off the plane before you die of smoke inhalation or it explodes."  He looked at me like I was nuts.

I am nuts.  I hate to fly.  Just seeing an airplane makes me break out in a cold sweat.  I hate taking off, I hate reaching cruising altitude and I hate landing.  I hate the little bags of peanuts.  I hate the little cups of coke they bring you.  I hate the oxygen mask demonstration and the tray tables.  I hate it all!

I am not afraid of crashing.  I figure if the plane crashes, you might stand a chance of getting out alive.  No, I sit in my seat, hands curled in a death grip around the armrests, panting like a Boxer with bronchitis, waiting for the inevitable. 

"The inevitable", you may ask?  Yes, the inevitable moment when my seat is sucked out of the bottom of the airplane, and I plunge thousands of feet to the ground, still buckled into my seat, with the tray table smacking me in the forehead as I descend.  I realize it is somewhat irrational to assume I will be sucked out of the airplane.  But I am no crazier than the people who spend five minutes lining the toilet seat in the Wal-Mart bathroom with toilet paper so they don't catch cooties.  What's the difference, really?

So I continued to give Tim instructions, imposing my neuroses upon him as we drove.  "Now if the plane is going down, call me," I told him. "If I see your number pop up before I know you're supposed to land, I will let it go to the answering machine so you can leave one final message for the children."  He laughed at me in a very unkind way.  

So we moved on to financial matters.  After much discussion, we determined I would actually be making $.73 less per week if he died, after paying off all of our bills, even with life insurance and social security.  At that point, I started actively lobbying for his survival.  There's no point in being a widow if you can't be insanely rich!

We pulled up to the airport, and I let him out of the car with final instructions.  "Now don't try to be all heroic and save anyone," I told him.  "Step on whoever you have to and get off the plane!  They only make movies about survivors!"  He gave me a kiss and walked away quickly, presumably to get away from me in case the insanity was catching.

So he's gone, the phone hasn't rung yet and I am going to Kohl's to pick out a new black dress. Just in case!!