Grapes, Lettuce, Chicken Breast, Coffee

Most people aren't bothered by being crammed into a human-sized cigar tube traveling over 500 mph through the sky. Some people love the ups and downs of turbulence, treating it like a roller coaster at a theme park. Not me. I'd rather clean toilets than fly.

I start getting nervous around 24 hours before take-off, wondering about the pilot's eyesight, airport security, the weather — you name it. I survey my fellow passengers at the gate, guessing who might be the fastest and strongest — who will be most helpful in a disaster. When it comes time to board, I walk the aisle, touching the top of each seat until I reach my row. If we crash, I'll know how many steps to take to reach the closest door in the dark. I never drink alcohol on a flight because I want to be a sober swimmer. The same goes for flying over land. No alcohol. I need to be able to run away from the plane, Hollywood-style, before it bursts into flames.

On a recent flight, I planned to read Ann Patchett's "The Dutch House" — assured this distraction would last me the entire flight. In the first chapter, I've gone back in time to 1940 to see a beautiful mansion in the suburbs of Philadelphia. It goes into detail so that I can imagine the grounds, complete with fields of wildflowers and the building’s architecture. Suddenly, a loud talker bulldozes her way into the house tour, greeting her neighbor in seat 12B. I look up long enough to see this traveler's face as she places her bag in the overhead compartment and sits in front of me.

Determined to return to the mansion, I look down at my book and in my mind, see the floor-to-ceiling windows on the first floor and the large portraits of generations past placed over the stone fireplace. I meet the main characters and learn their backstories. But it appears my flight friend has caught a terrible case of mouth diarrhea. Her musings are loud and beckon all within hearing distance to know she has fears: currently, spiders and airplanes.

Unfortunately, this woman is not afraid of word vomit. Her voice is starting to wear on me, and she’s started not only talk faster but more quickly, too. I think she’s nervous. To catch you up, she's a part-time bartender, making $70K a year because working nine to five in an office is boring. Her daughter is about to turn 13, and she's throwing a party for her. Should she allow boys at the party or not? I look around at the other conversation prisoners, confirming that none of us cares about the party. I cannot tell if this woman's seatmate is engaging her in banter. I am guessing that even if they wanted to speak, they might have trouble getting their chance. All I hear is her announcing she is 32.

I quickly deduce that she was still a teen when she became a mother. I wonder if her loud talking is a side effect of young motherhood. My dad is 82 and wears hearing aids, so he tends to miss a portion of conversations. I'll likely be hard of hearing someday, too, and I’m dreading that. But today is different. I wish I was deaf at cruising altitude.

This mega-phone talker is still at it after 45 minutes in flight. I don't have earbuds, so I consider walking out on the wing or spending 30 minutes in the pristine airplane bathroom. None will bring peace, I decide. I try to sleep, dreaming that I unbuckle my seatbelt, stand, and dramatically clear my throat. I’ve always been good at making presentations, and I’m not particularly shy. When I begin reading my book out loud with the best stage voice I can muster, it is apparent that I am competing for the most obnoxious passenger. Lucky for the listeners, the page I read describes a grisly death in the family, a knock-down, drag-out argument, and a sinister leading lady — it’s chock-full of activity.

From the lack of eye contact, my flight neighbors to my left and right aren't interested in listening to my story time. Before I can finish sharing more from my book, a man seated across the aisle starts speaking. Not unlike Humphrey Bogart, he addresses the plane, saying, "Here's looking at you, kid." I quickly glance over to see the subtitles in the movie he is watching cue his next line. I've abandoned my book now, my attention directed at a woman in the row behind Bogart. She is smirking while shouting the grocery list she's reading from her phone. "Grapes, lettuce, chicken breast, coffee." The monologue mama looks up and stops. She finally reads her audience, and silence fills the cabin.

I wake up with a grin, deciding that while I have a meticulous plan for flying and preparing for any disaster, some things, like a relentless talker, are out of my control, and that’s okay. Maybe not ideal, but okay.

For someone who plans escape routes, monitors potential emergency exits, and avoids in-flight cocktails for the sake of a hypothetical disaster, I have to admit — sometimes, the real challenge isn’t what I’ve prepared for. It’s the things I can’t prepare for, like this woman’s ongoing life commentary. Nothing I can do could have shielded me from this woman’s deep dive into bartending wages, teenage birthday parties, and fears.

And yet, here I am, still alive. The plane hasn’t gone down. The talker hasn’t burst my eardrums. I haven’t opened the emergency exit or thrown my book at her head, though I came close.

Letting go doesn’t mean giving up. It means accepting that not everything is mine to fix. Maybe next time I’ll pack noise-canceling headphones. Or maybe I’ll just embrace the chaos, order a drink, and roll with it. For now, I settle back in my seat, exhale, and let the hum of the engines drown the chatter out. Life goes on. Even at 35,000 feet.