Jennifer Pinto

Tethered

I could tell you I have no desire to fly anywhere. Not to Massa Lubrense for a limoncello with my girlfriends or to Lisbon for a pasteis de nata and a galao, not an ounce of longing to fly to the Galapagos for a snorkeling trip with my husband on our 30th wedding anniversary. I could tell you art museums or botanical gardens in foreign countries don’t pique my interest at all. I might say, “I’m funny that way, more of a homebody, really.” I could convince you I prefer to experience worldly things by reading a book in a comfortable chair where I don’t have to walk long distances or climb flights of stairs.

I could claim to have a fear of heights so severe the mere thought of being 31,000 feet in the air makes my heart race and my palms sweat. A fear of flying that can’t be rationalized. Not by looking up crash and safety statistics, not by considering the sheer number of planes that take off and land safely each day. I could tell you I'd prefer to safely drive to my destinations in a car where I choose my seat and who my fellow passengers will be. That the conversations, snacks, drinks and songs on the radio are the best part of the trip.

I could say I have no need to feel my body glide through the air, no yearning to soar above the ground, to ride the wind and feel the softness of the clouds. I could pretend I’ve never spent a warm afternoon on a swing pushing myself higher and higher until I felt like I was flying. Pretend I’ve never laid on a blanket in the park and jealously watched birds glide above my head. Pretend I’m content to remain firmly planted on the ground like a Botero statue. 

I could tell you I’m afraid the glares of fellow passengers as I board the plane will shoot through me like laser beams. I can imagine my skin turning a blotchy red when they quickly avert their eyes, looking down at their hands praying I’m not headed to the empty seat next to them, that they won't have to sacrifice an armrest for my extra inches. I could admit to the fear of humiliation that comes with asking for a seat belt extender or having the flight attendant whisper in my ear that I’m being asked to move because someone feels crowded. I could tell you about the anxiety I feel just imagining myself squeezing through the narrow aisle to the tiny bathroom where I'd have to shimmy sideways to fit inside the meager opening. 

 I could say the discomfort and indignity of traveling by air is worth it, that soaring through the sky in an airplane is the perfect antidote for existing in a body that feels permanently tethered to the ground. But that would be a big fat lie.

Jennifer Pinto writes both fiction and creative nonfiction. She lives in Cincinnati with her husband and Goldendoodle pup, Josie. She enjoys pottery, cooking Indian meals and drinking coffee at all hours of the day. Her work has been published in Sundog Lit, Halfway Down the Stairs and The Bookends Review. She has work forthcoming in The Bluebird Word and Lunch Ticket.