I’ve gotten really good at crying on airplanes. Or, maybe I’m just really good at crying in general and I happen to spend a lot of time on airplanes, therefore I naturally just cry more everywhere, including in the air.
While the latter might be true, I honestly think there’s something cathartic about being on an airplane, always has been. Sure, air travel is a nightmare and a half. We're more often delayed than not, our bags nearly always break the scales, we all will probably have to start seeing a chiropractor due to plane-seat induced back pain. But once we make it through security and order our Starbucks (because it’s freaking early and we need it, okay?) and scurry to our gates and curtesy check our carry-ons (because we have a strange anxiety about the inevitable lack of overhead bin space - No? Just me?) and find our seats and eventually take off, we’re stuck. For the two, three, four, five-hundred hours that we're actually on the plane, we're trapped.
Flying a million miles an hour in a metal canister death trap, we somehow all find some sort of peace. We sleep, we drink, we read, we play games, we listen to music, we do anything to attempt to block out the crying babies. And despite being trapped in the sky with hundreds of strangers, we hardly ever converse with each other. Cut off from the world below (unless you’re a high roller who consistently balls out on overpriced internet), we’re essentially alone with ourselves.
More often than not, I spend my time airborne thinking. I'll listen to music, sure. It’s usually slower-paced, sad stuff because it’s not like I can break it down from 26B. Sometimes, if I manage to stay awake, I’ll read some pages in one of the minimum 3 books I seem to have with me at all times. I might watch a movie, no limit to the genre. If it’s funny, I’ll laugh, and if it’s heartbreaking, I’ll cry. Personal space is as non-existent as my leg room, and yet I’m alone in empty theater. But in the minutes not filled with entertainment, or loud-speaker announcements, or screaming children, it’s quiet. The engines provide YouTube-worthy white noise as my mind wanders.
I find myself dwelling on the past, worrying about the future. Thinking about the what-could-have-beens and stressing about all the what-is (are?)-to-comes. Replaying the past few days and storyboarding the days ahead. This can be a spiraling road; I’m left alone with my thoughts in quite possibly one of the most unreachable places and no one’s able to pull me out of them. Until the wheels hit the tarmac, the world below ceases to exist. It’s just me and whatever fantasies of new or old I’ve come up with this time around.
I realize that all of this sounds pretty emo, and you're right, it is. But since a plane ticket prices out similarly to a session with a well renowned therapist, I'm gonna milk my hour(s) for what it's worth.
More often than not, my thinking leads me to my phone. Rendered useless by airplane mode, the one thing still available is my Photos app. In nearly every aspect of life, I'd consider myself a hoarder, my phone not lacking. What this means is that I have, roughly, two years of photos on my phone, two years of screenshots of obscure tweets that I never know when I might need to reference in conversation, so no, I can't delete them. More than just the memes, I carry with me two years of trips, of final semesters of college, of holidays, of friends, of family. Two years isn't that long, in the scheme of things. But just think of how much can happen in that time, especially when the past two years include a graduation and a few moves and a new job and a hell of a lot of change. And to think that I subject myself to reliving some of that every time I'm in the air... masochistic much?
I remember being sixteen or seventeen flying home from somewhere I don't remember and, in the twenty minutes before landing, getting so incredibly worked up about whatever stupid boy I was infatuated with at the time. Or another instance that occurred this past December, when, as the plane descended into New York City, my panic rose because, after a week of being so sure in my sudden decision that I'd be moving back in six months, I suddenly realized it wasn't as simple as just saying I would. Or even today, after watching La La Land for the first time since it was in theaters (yes, I'm the only person you know who still likes this film), I began contemplating a very real conflict in an otherwise unrealistic (and to some, problematic) film, which [I think] is: is truer happiness found in pursuing love or sacrificing whatever it takes to accomplish your dreams?
But then boom, the plane lands and the haze breaks. Time's up, session's over. My phone wakes from its coma and the notifications roll in. People start to stir as the plane taxis and arrives at the gate. As soon as the seatbelt sign goes off, everyone is out of their seats and in a rush to go nowhere for at least five minutes until things actually start moving. And as I step onto that jet bridge, it’s like I'm walking through a time-warped tunnel back into the real world. I’ve got places to be, people to see, bags to retrieve, and wow I need to pee.
Basically, my point is this: whether it’s in your car, or on the subway, or on the street walking, or, if you’re not constantly on the go like me, in your room, or the library, or wherever, take a second. Feel, breathe, laugh, cry, reflect, panic, relax, think. In public or in private, sometimes you just need some me time, ya know? And while I’ve cried in all aforementioned locations, I spend a lot of time on airplanes. So hell, I might as well make the most of it.