I hate flying.
Flying in an airplane is the quintessential combination of boredom and terror. Especially on two-hour flights, during which one has just enough time to get bored in between a terrifying takeoff and equally terrifying landing.
Tomorrow I get to do that, not once, but twice.
The situation's not helped by my umpteenth reading of Mary Roach's Stiff, a book about the...er...life of corpses. In it, she recounts an interview with a man whose job it is to determine what happens during and after an airliner crash--from the bodies of the victims. Not good pre-flight reading. Note, too, that this caveat is coming from someone who read Steven King's short story "The Langoliers" on a flight to Denmark.
Everything is packed save my glasses and makeup. The bed has fresh sheets on it, the laundry is done. The Boyfriend has been deputized to take care of The Cat for the week. (Sample from Cat-Care Instructions: "Under no circumstances should you attempt to impress The Cat by throwing gang signs or using such slang as 'Fo' shizzle, mah kizzle!' This will merely irritate The Cat, who will respond by bustin' a cap in yo' ass.") The folks who run this joint understand whom they are to call if the building falls down in my absence. The refrigerator is mostly free of food. I think I might just have it all covered.
Now all I have to do is wait for 4:30 a.m. to come. And dread the flight in the meantime.