Flying Is Not My Friend

It's no secret around here that I hate to fly. I can't stand it. I feel out of control; I hate all the waiting; and I'd always, always prefer to have my car and drive myself. I don't care if it takes 12 hours; I'll drive, thankyouverymuch.

Still, I'm a somewhat rational person and realize there are times when flying is a necessary evil - like when you're flying back East to hang out with a cute boy and you don't have extra time to drive. Fine. Whatever. He's worth it; I'll do it, but you can't make me like it.

Sadly, my flight to New Jersey was bereft with a comedy of errors so ridiculous that I knew the rest of the weekend would be incredible (which it was). Not only did I get lost on the way to long-term parking after staying up all night so I wouldn't miss my flight, but there were multiple delays, we got stuck on the tarmac (which is the WORST) and, of course, they lost my luggage. Typical. Oh, did I mention it was the first time I'd flown since the London debacle so I almost had a panic attack going through security?

The way home wasn't much better. I had a three and a half hour layover in Boston and then after the boarding the plane they couldn't gather some information (read: we're all going to die) and we were stuck on the tarmac again. I'm not sure, but what was supposed to be a six hour flight felt like it took two years. Long story short, I've never been so happy to be reunited with my car. Screw you, flying. I hate you.