I must admit, when my firefighter husband, Jake, told me a year ago that he was going to take flying lessons, I was more than a little unnerved by the whole thought of it. I mean seriously, isn’t his job dangerous enough? Besides that, I’m one of those people who has a whole routine before I get on a commercial airliner — saying my prayers, leaving my husband little notes, talking to my mom before I board. To put it simply, flying makes me panic.
So imagine the fear that rippled through my body as my husband went out weekend after weekend learning to conquer my greatest fear. I’m quite sure I drove him nuts with the whole call-me-before-you-take-off and call-me-after-you-land routine, but luckily his desire to fly granted him some semblance of patience with my neurotic self. Of course I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to go up with him in that tiny little flying contraption that barely qualified, in my mind, to be called an airplane, but I thought I had plenty of time to put that off.
