I've never been one for flying, I just don't trust the damn things. And no, I'm not one of those people who would rent a car for three days, catch a train, followed by a quick bus ride and hop on the back of a Harley with a man whose pony tail is longer than mine just to avoid airplanes. Instead, I silently panic and give the armrests a death grip during takeoff, a technique I learned from my mother at an early age, who ironically was a flight attendant for Northwestern for ten years. Which just goes to show, fear of flying is probably genetic and cannot be cured. But, as I selectively pack two suitcases for my upcoming trip, aware of the fact that every time I add a shirt to the pile I
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