On a Jet Plane

I’m pre-writing this post because I suspect by Thursday I’ll be halfway to basket case, between packing and planning and planning to pack. Hope Ramsay and I are visiting the Northwest Houston RWA chapter on Saturday to give a workshop on critique partners who have opposite approaches to writing. Yes, we are romance fiction’s version of The Odd Couple.

I don’t know what scares me more, standing in front of a crowd of really nice people, trying not to make a fool of myself, or the idea of flying. I’m not a good flyer. I was once. Literally, once. My parents and my aunt and uncle put me and my cousin on a plane to South Carolina when we were about 12. We had a great time and flirted with the steward (as they were then called), and I remember reading a Time magazine about the collapse of a hotel in Kansas City. That’s how long ago that happened.

Since then I took a flight to Texas for a friend’s wedding, and I didn’t once consider airsickness a possibility. It became one, fast. By the time I got to San Antonio, I was sicker than a dog and very likely had a migraine too. My friends took off and did their own thing, and I curled up in the hotel, called my mom and cried.

After that I discovered the motion sickness wristbands that I take with me everywhere. I’m praying they work for me again on Friday (and Sunday) but I’m nervous that they won’t. I’m also not excited about being stuck in traction coach for 3+ hours. We sat for 45 minutes when we did the Autism Explorers trip in January, and it took a few days for my knees to recover.

Suffice it to say, I’m nervous, but I’m going to be with some terrific friends, I’m going to meet a whole squadron of new friends, and we’re going to have fun. I’ve already picked out my travel knitting project. I just need to find those air/sea bands… Gulp.