The Flying Lawnmower

I hate flying out of Wyoming's regional airports. Regional airports in general, actually. I always have. Miniscule airplanes seem a faulty alternative to handing out wings and teaching commuters to flap themselves from city to city.

Nothing leaves me feeling less secure than having a mere panel of plastic window separating my very beloved head from the whirring propellers of the aircraft that's supposed to safely deposit me on the tarmac of Denver International or on the tiny strip of runway in Small Town USA. Anything that sounds (and feels) like an outsized lawnmower automatically gets a FAIL in the category of making me feel secure during my airborne travels.

The safety demonstration does nothing to allay my fears. I know - deep, deep down - that these planes are small enough that, in a Worst Case Scenario, the pamphlet is useless. I won't survive whatever misfortune befalls our plane long enough to look for the oxygen mask that may or may not be dangling in front of my face or to find the illuminated strip running down the aisle.

I think I'm better at hiding my angst than I used to be. I can pretend to read pretty convincingly, making it appear that my miniscule iPod headphones really are drowning out the head-splitting drone of the plane's engines, which happen to give my seat a not-so-soothing vibration/massage.

But in reality, my ears are following every dip and rise in the rhythmic hum of the engines. My stomach is accutely tuned into every millimeter of the plane's climbs and falls. I'm constantly looking out the frosted-over window at the blender blade which I'm certain will be flung through the cabin at any moment. Jesus and I are getting reacquainted, and the cover of my book now bears the indelible imprint of all ten of my digits as I clutch it in a death grip, checking my watch for the fifth time that minute, wondering whether it's possible that time has actually stopped and I'll never really arrive at my destination.

This is hell, or limbo, and I'm stuck, eternally anticipating a painful Ending via Propeller Blade.

I used to think I was odd - not quite unique in my fear of regional planes ("puddle-jumpers," my roommate Debbie used to call them), but certainly not in the majority - because my fellow travelers seemed so much calmer than I felt.

But according to an article in msnbc.com's travel section, I'm far from being in a minority in my loathing of Flying Pencils.

I don't know whether I feel better about that, but at least now I know that should my worst fears come true while encased in that tiny flying tube, I won't be alone in thinking "I knew it all along," for whatever cold comfort can be derived from that.