Tuesday, December 16, 2003


There's a reason they call me "No Fun Mia". I'm not. I'm careful and detailed. I hate to lose control. This applies to every aspect of my life. I don't like to get totally wasted drunk or stoned or whatever. I don't like being a passenger in a car. Especially in the front seat. It's one of my lovely panic disorder driven quibbles. Don'cha love me?!

But what seems to be contradictory is that I love to be scared. I love to go on rollercoasters, thrill rides, airplanes, swim with sharks, etc. Why? It's simple... and yet simply ridiculous. I'm not afraid to die. To be eaten alive? ok. To crash into a fire ball in the mountains? sure, why not. To be ejected on a loop-the-loop at 75mph? whatever. The point is that I would be dead. Not mangled. Not injured. Not 'too bad, she was such a young woman when this horrible thing happened'.

And yet, with these panic attacks forever at the ready and my fear of death quelled, each and every time I attempt one of these activities, I'm sure it will be the last time that I see the light of day. As our jet started barrelling down the runway last week, I thought for sure we hadn't been de-iced enough. The runway was icy. The tarmac was slippery. The airport is balanced dangerously on an isthmus, we would plunge into the sea. I wasn't scared. I said my peace with the world and closed my eyes. I called my husband before we boarded to remind him of how much I loved him. It was OK. Obviously, nothing happened... I am here today. And yet I was so certain.

Am I fatalistic or narcissistic? Why, out of all the planes in the world, would it be MINE that burst into flames?

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