Upon boarding a plane, I have these desires to be the jet-setter with the big sunglasses and the scarf and the big vintage carry-on.

But lately, the second I take my seat, I become more like Woody Allen and less like Jackie O.

I love the act of traveling. Love. I have no doubts that I could take a career exploring the far corners of the world, discovering and eating and writing. [And eating!]  At this point in my life, I do love Indianapolis — but not enough to stay behind should someone hand me free plane tickets and some petty cash. (HINT HINT, people who are inclined to do such things.)

But while I have taken airplane trips at least once a year since I was four, somewhere along the line, air travel has become the most neurotic experience of my life. (And you know that must be bad because my entire life is pretty damn neurotic.) I’m assuming this is a result of three things:

1. I dream about plane malfunctions on the regular.
2. I experienced two severe turbulence issues on a couple recent flights.  I’m not talking “bumpy.” I’m talking people shrieking at roller-coaster decibels and holy f*ckballs we are going to fall out of the sky.
3. I don’t like it when I’m in a situation I can’t immediately flee from when I feel uncomfortable. [Paging Dr. Freud?]

I know all the statistics about the safety of air travel. I’m not afraid of the takeoff, or the landing. I’m not afraid of crashing, even.  I hate the ascent, and especially despise the descent: when things feel unstable. When, if it’s really bad - you feel like you’re being tossed around in a tin can.

This happened with the tailwinds from those damned Rockies while flying into Denver leaving LA. (I’m not even sure that’s accurate. That sounds right, though, doesn’t it? Tailwinds? Rockies? Go with it.)  Once the light bumps turn into shakes and dips, I become nervous and nauseaous and hyper-chatty.  I’m no longer the seemingly seasoned traveler nonchalantly flipping through Rolling Stone. I’m the disheveled redhead in 6A whose boyfriend attempts consolation by urging her to “Just look at the mountains, focus on the mountains,” but THE MOUNTAINS ARE BOUNCING and I AM IN A SHAKING, HUGE STEEL CAGE OF FEAR.

AND? AND? THAT RACOON IS TAUNTING ME.

My last pre-flight anti-anxiety cocktail consisted of copius amounts of wine and Tylenol PM, which was not safe, according to, well, everyone. So this time around I just took some Benedryl, hoping to knock myself out. But my system was all, Ha, remember when you were an insomniac and had the good shit? This is amateur. Oh, and here is a megaphone for your inner monologue of insecurities.

What did work was a combo of all-natural remedies: In-flight TV, closed eyes, and deep breaths. I discovered that it was the visual of seeing the wings rock,  people’s heads move, that was making me freak out. It was the sound of creaking seats, passengers’ comments, nervous laughter.  I’m okay. I just need find that happy place I go to, like when I feel like the dentist is drilling a whole into my jaw. Just turn up Bravo really loud. Inhale. Exhale.

[Yeah so next time I'll probably just take some Xanax.]