by Patti
I have to leave in a few days for a work trip, and that ol' friend Anxiety has already started poking at my insides. Well, actually, Anxiety has been poking at my insides long before today; it is a faithful companion when it comes to having to fly, never failing to do its job just right by me. Oh, Anxiety. You and your willingness to succeed.
Yes, I'm afraid to fly. I never was before I had S. I have had the lucky opportunity to travel to many places in the world, and before I became a mother, I never gave packing my bags and boarding a plane a second thought. After S? Why would I do that? I COULD DIE. And although I'm not too keen on dying just yet - especially in a fiery crash that might have me knowing I'm going to die for many, many torturous minutes as I hurtle mercilessly through the air in a metal tube with 200 other screaming passengers - my main fear of flying is not necessarily dying - though, I have to admit that would suck; it's dying and leaving S motherless.
And it's not just flying. Before I had S, I have to admit: I did alot of crazy things. Things I did without regard to consequence. Like the time M and I went skydiving, for example. I mean, REALLY? Would I REALLY strap on some fabric fashioned into a supposed life-saving parachute and jump out of a perfectly good plane when my daughter needs a mother to take her shopping for a prom dress? I mean, M has good taste and all, but I need to stay alive for that someday purchase of coquettish chiffon and a boutonniere. If he takes her shopping for a prom dress, S will likely end up going to her prom in this:
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| I'm too sexy for my habit |
I have to give my mind credit: It is pretty adept at coming up with every possible way to die. Aside from the usual culprtis like cancer and other assorted 21st century diseases (ebola, anyone?), my creative little mind has convinced me that going for a stroll in the park will leave me stabbed; driving will leave me decapitated; eating a burger will leave me all Mad Cow; swimming in the ocean will leave me either sucked under by a rip tide or legless-by-shark; running on the treadmill will cause my heart to stop, causing me to collapse onto the rapidly moving surface so that my head gets sucked into the machine; walking to the mailbox will leave me kidnapped - and depending on what kind of mood M is in, I may or may not be rescued by the resulting ransom....
Oh, I could go on (and on), but the point is: However and whenver the great big clock in the sky points to my Time to Go, I don't want it to be when S still needs me. Dying on its own is some scary shit; dying and leaving behind my daughter when she still doesn't know the difference between long-wearing and thickening mascaras; when she still hasn't gotten her first period; when she still hasn't had her heart broken in the ways that make a girl a woman; when she still hasn't known the fear that motherhood instills in a woman's heart - I simply can't leave. Not yet.
But the mystery of "when" remains, and so the possibility that my brain will explode as I am innocently falling asleep does too. Let's just hope that by then, S is leaning on her cane, her grandchildren around her, her husband's arm circling her waist. What a way to go.
