I stayed up far too late last night, completely absorbed by the United Airways story. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be on a flight and three minutes into it, hear the pilot’s instructions to brace for impact. And not to make light of the sheer terror that ran through every passenger and crew member on board, I do imagine what I would do in that situation, or what I wouldn’t do because I would be freaking the living freak out. With how heavily twittered, flickered, and blogged this crash was, everyone is flooded with multi-perspectives and I was given exactly what I needed to fill in the cracks of my imagination.
I told my husband that we needed a plan. He looked at me across the dinner table and said, “A plan? Like in case we get in an airplane crash?”
I knew how absurd it sounded. We had been on a handful of plane trips with each other before we had Nathan and fewer than that once we became parents. Plane rides with a child are a definite luxury, but one that’s nerve-wracking to the point of almost torture. Like I was invited to a black and white ball, but before I can step onto the dance floor I have to run laps around the room with a 40 pound child on my back.
The Plane Plan was one of those conversations that I just started without knowing what I was talking about or where I wanted the conversation to head. I just love the sound of my own voice, which my husband knew when he married me. Me, the sound of my voice and my subsequent love thereof ARE A PACKAGE DEAL BUDDY. It’s like when I wake up pissed off at something Mike did in my dream–he married someone else, he bought a car with only a driver’s seat so I couldn’t ride with him, or I’m in a foreign country and he doesn’t want to pick me up because it’s too far. But even though dreams are products of my subconscious, I heave some of the blame on my husband because Washington is a community property state and half of my subconscious is his fault.
These hypothetical conundrums are ones I normally pull my husband into, and if he’s not around to answer questions like, “Would you still love me if I had no arms and no legs” I’ll wander in that direction myself. But I do not want to be on those hidden camera shows that test what I’ll do in a situation without my knowing that I’m on national television, paying Howie Mandel’s godawful “HOWIE DO IT” (real clever, NBC!) giving a family a $10 million dollar prize and then hearing in my earpiece that we’re at the wrong house or worse, those What Would You Do investigative shows when they secretly tape you watching a man drug his date’s drink and there you are on TV being all date-rape-helpy. I don’t want to be date-rape-helpy.
The only kind of hidden camera show I would be featured on would be one that placed a donut in front of me to find out how long before it traveled into my big gaping mouth. If your guess was nanoseconds, you’d be right, my friend.