My Point...And I Do Have One Read Online Free PDF

other, then they started to chant, “We want Lola! We want Lola! We want Lola!”
    And they wouldn’t be quiet until I called Lola Falana and had her come over and entertain us.
    But that’s a story for another day.

the plane
truth
or

dem ain’t goobers, dem’s peanuts!

    I know that experts say you’re more likely to get hurt crossing the street than you are flying (these, of course, would be the street-crossing experts), but that doesn’t make me feel any less frightened of flying. If anything, it makes me more afraid of crossing the street. As soon as the light turns green, I run across the street as fast as I can, screaming like a madwoman. I arrive on the other side out of breath, wheezing, and clutching my stomach (or if I’m in a whimsical mood, the stomach of the person standing next to me).
    So, to conquer my fear of flying, I decided to write down my feelings on a recent trip. I kept an in-flight journal (which is like an in-flight movie—but without anyone standing up in front of you so you miss the good parts, and with better sound).
    I felt edgy the moment I stepped into the aircraft. That could be why I snapped at the woman in front of me. In my defense, she did ask the flight attendant a pretty stupid question: “Excuse me, where is seat 27-B?” I mean, really. But I see now that I overreacted when I screamed at her, “Well, moron, you walk in the only direction you can, and it’s the 27th row, seat B—next to seat A. All righty?!” That sort of response is probably one of the many reasons why I’m not a flight attendant.
    It was only when the woman (27-B) turned around to look at me that I saw she was a nun. I guess that sort of hatlike thing she wore on her head should have given me a clue, but sometimes I don’t have that good an eye for details.
    I tried to apologize by smiling and giving her a playful punch on the arm to let her know I was joking. Well, either my playful punch carried more of a wallop than I intended (due to the tension I feel about flying), or her advanced years made her frailer than she appeared, or she was just a big old ham (which is my theory), but the nun shouted out, “Owww!” and rubbed her arm like she was inpain. She rolled up her sleeve and … You know, that bruise could
easily
have been there before I hit her.
    My good friend Jasmine (at least I think that’s her name; I’m so scared that it’s affecting my already rattled memory; I know that it’s the name of a tea, so if it’s not Jasmine, it’s either Earl Grey or Hibiscus) told me that a good way to combat fear is to chant. So all the way to my seat I was chanting, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die, oh sweet Lord, I’m going to die.” It didn’t work. If anything, I was more petrified when I got to my seat (27-A). Even seeing the familiar face of the nun in 27-B (who seemed to flinch when she saw me) didn’t calm me down.
    So here I am, sitting in my seat, working on my journal. Hey, there’s a fly on this plane. I am so scared of flying, I can’t imagine how flies do it all day, every day. But, then again, that’s what a fly does, fly. It’s his job. What’s going through that fly’s mind? He’s looking out the window and probably saying to himself, “Wow, look how high up I am. I’ve never gotten up this high, I am going very, very fast, and I’m not really working any harder than I usually do.”
    This fly just happened to wander onto a plane in Los Angeles. Several hours later it is going to get off in New York City. I’m concerned it will be disoriented, and not just from jet lag and being improperly dressed for New York, but more in a
Home Alone 2
kind of way.
    A bunch of flies will probably be waiting as it gets off the plane. They’ll all be hugging, blocking the way. Nobody will get by. There will even be a chauffeur holding a tiny sign that says FLY. I’ll be relieved to see he has friends there. Well, I’m assuming it’s a
he
. It’s so hard to tell unless