Rationality is Relative
I'm one of those fearless people. At least, I've been described as such. I like to think it's an accurate description.
I charge boldly through most things in my life, sometimes falling just short of foolhardy. New job? No sweat. New city where I know no one? Great! Possibility of bad news? I'm sure it will be fine. Crisis situation? I'm the one who calmly directs the screaming masses.
Sean being on a plane without me.
This is remarkably silly, I concede. I personally have absolutely no fear of flying. I've never felt the slightest hesitation about leaping aboard a plane, pre- or post- 9/11.
In all fairness to my own neuroses, it's the same with long car trips, short car trips, even extended hopscotch excursions. For god's sakes, the boy leaves to get a burrito and I'm convinced he's going to find a way to wrap the car around a tree while poking along at 35 mph. By the time he gets home 20 minutes later, I've already mentally divided his possessions among his closest friends.
I am a silly, silly person this way. And it makes me wonder what life will be like if/when I have kids. I can visualize these poor fearful things, subjected to an overbearing, overprotective freak of a mother like myself. I see them, stuffed into winter coats and hats and scarves when the temperature dips below 61. (They might get cold!) Forced to wear long sleeves on the beach. (Sunburn! Skin cancer!!!) Teetering under huge, cumbersome football helmets as they walk down city streets. (Anvils! Pianos! They drop from the sky!!!)
In short, I'm years of therapy just waiting to happen.
Oh, but Sean's plane just landed safely. I just hope his limo driver isn't really a Cuban druglord intent on kidnapping him as a political prisoner...