Tag Archives: fear of flying

Prayers on a Plane

I hate flying.  Hate it.  Truly hate it.  It puts me in a foul mood.  It ranks right up there with trips to the gynecologist and paying taxes.  When I flew to Michigan this past week – the early morning flight was pretty unremarkable, but I am a nervous flyer and I said a great many prayers.  Here is a sampling:

ଓଡ଼ିଆ: କଳା କଫି

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Please, God.  Let there not be any knives in my purse like that time in St. Louis when they discovered a jack-knife my father-in-law had given me and that I had forgotten about and which I already transported (undetected) into St. Louis.  (There were no weapons discovered in my carry-on belongings this trip.)

Please, God, do not make me be subjected to intense security screening (groping) prior to my getting some coffee.  I much prefer to be caffeinated (or inebriated) during an involuntary grope session.  (I was not groped by security – but the coffee service left me feeling dirty).

Please, God, let Great American Bagel Bakery go bankrupt for charging more for coffee than their posted prices – “we just haven’t had a chance to change our sign, Sorry.  Do you want the coffee or not, ma’am?”.  (So far, they have not gone bankrupt, and yes, I did want the damned coffee).

Please, God, do not let me jump over this counter and throttle the youngster (aren’t there child labor laws?) who served me a “large” over-priced coffee, roughly the size of a shot glass that contained approximately 3 1/2 teaspoons of coffee.  When I asked for the rest of my “large black coffee”, this miscreant actually said to me “I left room in case you wanted to add cream and sugar”.  Maybe I have been drinking black coffee all wrong for many years.   Maybe if you need that much room for cream and sugar you shouldn’t call yourself a coffee drinker, you should just confess your cream and sugar addiction and get out of my way.   Maybe the manager was a little insincere with his apology when he finally filled the cup all the way to the top, which then spilled out with my first sip and soiled my new blouse. Maybe karma is a bitch.  Maybe it’s me.  (No one was throttled and the blouse was salvaged.  The coffee, however, worked out to be about $64/gallon.)

Please, please, please dear God – do not let the woman squeezing pimples on her forehead in the ladies restroom sit next to me on the plane.  I will jump without a parachute, I swear.  She had dreadlocks, bad acne – now bloody – and an aroma that was a mixture of curried goat, week-old sweat, August road kill and cigarettes.  I. Will. Jump. (She did not sit next to me, and I did not jump).


Dear God – please let those in first class get smacked with every single piece of luggage of those passing to the cheap seats because they insist on boarding first (that’s a privilege?) and then look disdainfully down their noses as the riffraff passes. (I don’t know if that happened, but I did let my laptop swing behind me down their aisle).

Please, God.  Do not let that young woman with the little kids sit in our row.  That little guy is pulling his ear.  Probably has an ear infection and will scream the whole way.  And that other one looks like trouble.  Oh, dear Lord.  Across the aisle from us.  Oh, man.  I need a cigarette.  Wait.  I don’t smoke. (The children were beautifully behaved – much better travelers than me.)

Oh, Dear God.  Here comes acne/dreadlocks/aroma gal.  Whew…seated many rows in front of us.  (Perhaps her seatmates were all stuffed up – no one jumped.)

Please, God, let the pilot be sober. And let him have had his coffee.  And a good night’s sleep.



runway (Photo credit: myrrh.ahn)

Oh, Dear Lord – please let this baby get off the ground.  We’re going to run out of runway…we’re going to run out of runway…we’re going to run out of runway. (We did not run out of runway.)

Please, please, please dear God – let whoever farted in this plane go sit by acne/dreadlock/aroma gal.  And no, it was not the infant in our row – his mother took him to the bathroom to check.  Whomever it was should probably go visit a gastroenterologist, though, because I’m pretty sure something is dead in there.

Oh, Dear God – please let the pilot put this thing down gently. We’re going to run out of runway…we’re going to run out of runway…we’re going to run out of runway.  Pull up, for the love of Captain Sullenberger – pull up!!!    (We did not run out of runway, and I never felt the wheels touch – just heard the engines reversing to slow the plane.)


Dear Lord, please let me be grateful for such an uneventful flight and let me be sedated for the return trip.


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