The excitement I feel during the take-off portion of a plane trip is fairly indescribable for me. I'll try though, because it feels so big that I might burst if I don't share it.
I remember being a girl, on plane trips with my mom. I was open-mouthed with awe, staring wide-eyed out the window; Mom's nails were digging so deeply into my hand she nearly drew blood. I was filled with a deep joy as the plane raced down the Tarmac; my mom was fighting anxiety that nearly crippled her.
I have flown many times, and I never get over that rush of adrenaline and excitement: the speed during take-off, watching the city pass below me as we climb, the stomach-churning when the plane hits an air pocket.
My blood flows faster and I entertain the thought that I could die at any moment. My entire existence is now in the hands of a person I've never seen and probably wouldn't trust if I met him on the street, and I am uncharacteristically thrilled by that.
Apart from the near-addiction to adrenaline, I am also thrilled at leaving. I will gladly come back, but for now I'm going someplace else. It doesn't matter that I'll be working. It doesn't matter that I'll be alone for half of my trip. My skin starts to itch when I become so drenched in routine, and I've been drenched in routine for a long time.
If I get a choice regarding when I die I want it to be on a plane, during take-off.
Are you listening, God? I said takeoff. Not a minute sooner.