Sunroof

I hate to fly. It's not the actual flying that I hate; it's the parking, the walking, the checking in, the maneuvering through crowds of people, the security line, the waiting, the hours of sitting. Now pieces of planes are tearing off in midflight. So there's that, too.

I know myself well enough that if metal fatigue causes a piece of the plane I'm on to tear off, I will, undoubtedly, shit my pants.

It's not necessarily because the plane isn't holding together that I soil myself, but more so the hole that allows me to see outside, like I'm in Malibu and the weather is too to-die-for to miss. When I'm at 30,000 feet, the last thing I want is a view of, well, what am I looking at when I'm actually in the sky? Combine my newfound window seat with the sound of the wind and my heart could very well send a sharp pain down my left arm.

Then there's the drop in cabin pressure. I am not a fan of struggling to breathe. I try it every time I go swimming, and it hasn't taken hold. It's not worth having a window seat if I can't breathe and enjoy it. There's also the possibility I will pass out, in my shit-pants, amongst strangers, which raises the question, Can I come back from this?

This weekend, I plan on conducting experiments with my wife (surprise, honey!) to see if the flimsy seatbelt will keep me securely in place. Though, I imagine, if the force is strong enough it could unhinge the entire seat, rendering the seatbelt useless.

No one has been sucked out of the holes the metal fatigue has left behind, but I'm conducting the experiment anyway. Just like those conducting the emergency inspections, I want to be a part of the dog and pony show.