Peanuts and Prozac

Sooo.... in two days I will be boarding an airplane.  I should be easy to spot.  I'll be the woman on the plane with a bottle of Xanax in one hand,  a Rosary in the other, and wearing a beer helmet that is filled with gin and tonic.  I hate flying.  HAAAAAATE it.  I thought I was improving with handling this great fear of mine, but as soon as I pressed the "purchase" button to order my ticket, I broke out in hives and started hyperventilating.  In fact, my armpits are sweating profusely right now, and my left eye is twitching,  just thinking about it.  Sure, it'll get me to where I need to go much faster than say driving or walking, but I'd honestly rather walk 1,000 miles on my knees than get on a plane.  Let me paint you a picture of how it usually goes down-oh God, I think I should avoid that saying when I'm writing about airplanes-*ahem* of how I handle myself whilst on a deathtrap.  As soon as I get to my seat, I automatically lock my seatbelt into place, and look for the emergency exits.  I then have to unlock my seatbelt to let another person into my row, who either a) needs a seatbelt extender, or b) is wearing some exotic scent that violates my nose holes, and adds a migraine to my list of airplane ailments.  Just as I'm about to take a sip out of my gin and tonic tiara, I usually have to get up again, because Ms. Baby Soft or Mr. Drakkar needs to get something out of his or her bag, that is conveniently located in the overhead bin.  Finally, finally I am settled into my seat, where I will comfortably clutch the arm rests for the next three hours, while nervously peeking out of the airplane window, hoping that I don't see a colonial woman on the wing churning butter.  When the plane takes off, whoever is within a five foot proximity to me, will be able to hear me say the Hail Mary over and over and over again, with a few "Oh God's" thrown in, and "What was that?  Is that normal?  Are we there yet?"  Then again, these last few exclamations are usually drowned out because my head is shoved into a strangers armpit as I mumble to them, "Don't let this be awkward.  As soon as we land I'll remove my face from your arm crevice.  Hey, is that Dove fresh scent?  Because that shiz is delightful."  The only time I will uncurl myself from the fetal position is when the drink cart comes around.  That conversation usually goes like this:
Steward:  Would you like peanuts or cookies?
Me: If by "peanuts or cookies" you mean Prozac and tequila, well then both.  I want both. In fact, I will take one of every small bottle that you have on your little cart that always ends up slamming me in my elbows.
Stew: That'll be $296.00
Me:  Worth every penny.
So this upcoming Wednesday, say a little prayer for me.  Until then, I leave you with this classic clip from the movie Bridesmaids, because in all reality, Kristen Wiig's character was clearly based on me. :)