I just spent a combined 11 hours on airplanes over the past couple of weeks. Not my ideal state of “blissful” existence.
I hate flying.
Really, do not enjoy flying the friendly skies, whatsoever. I’m white knuckle, baby! A raging pussy once you get me into the tubular rocket to foreign lands…but I still endure the jet-fueled dissolution of my psyche for the payoff is always great, and my rational mind tells me it’s OK, it’s OK (repeat x 20). Really. Air travel is safe and dependable and…fine.
Yes, sure. Tell the phobic all the reasons his phobia must submit to the rationality of logic. Tell the phobic exactly why his phobia is a phobia: only. Tell the phobic to not be phobic through reason.
You’ll get nowhere.
Coincidentally, a day after I landed happily at LAX, and am now ensconced firmly on safe ground, I spied this video.
Let me say that the foul-tempered frame of mind that possesses me on any airplane flight is downright fiendish and murderous. On edge, I enter a zone of absolute wild vigilance. If I had to share a plane with that kid for 7 hours I would not be sitting here writing this for I suspect I would be in a jail cell awaiting a court hearing.
Guilty your honor!