bpratet tai

(means "Thailand.")

I'm back. The visit home was wonderful. We spent some time with my family and some time with Husband's family. We celebrated Passover. We went to Costco. We bought pants. I got to spend some time in the kitchen. The weather was colder than we expected: it snowed in Ohio when we arrived and again when we left. California was a bit chilly too.

The only bad thing about the trip was...well, the traveling. I hate to fly. And not just the who-gets-the-armrest and the when-is-this-guy-going-to-wake-up-so-I-can-go-to-the-bathroom stuff. I am ashamed to admit it, but I get a little scared. Now, I went to school, I studied Bernoulli, so all those engineers and physicists I'm related to can just stop with the eye-rolling. (If I've remembered the name wrong, well, that's kind of a free pass for eye-rolling, so have at it.) With the intellectual part of my brain I know the plane isn't actually going to fall out of the sky. But there's some remnant of cave-woman in me, maybe hiding out in the brain stem, who peers out the window from 30,000 feet and thinks "We're not supposed to be up here."

The logical thing to be afraid of, the Jungian thing, would be a terrorist attack or a mechanical malfunction or a drunken pilot. But it's more visceral, more basic than that. And I know it's irrational--I'm married to a pilot, for crying out loud! But there it is.