Posted on Jun 28, 2011
My wife hates flying. She hates it. We are on our way back from Kansas City and we had to fly there and back (the only other route is via cattle drive). I’ve tried to explain to her that hurtling through the air 5 miles above the earth at 600 miles per hour is the most natural thing in the world. But phobias are phobias.
I’m actually writing this on the plane and because irony chooses the most ironic times to show up, we are experiencing some turbulence. I tried to comfort her by having her read the first paragraph of this blog, but it must be the kind of thing that’s only funny to read from the ground.
Flying never bothered her until we had Luke. If it had, she might not have developed the love of traveling that she has. As it is, there is nothing more desirable she can imagine than being in a beautiful foreign place, and nothing more terrifying than getting there. I know what you’re thinking, “You should get an RV!” And you’re right, we should. But say that to Lizzy and she’ll react like you just told her we should replace our indoor plumbing with an outhouse. So I guess there are some things she hates more than flying.
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