I hate flying, and will only fly in an emergency.
The last time was to return home for my godfather's funeral. I hated every minute of it and upset all the people around me by looking like death warmed over. To call me white-knuckle doesn't begin to describe my fears.
But I wanted to be there for the widow, my Godmother, and my Dad, who lost his baby brother. My eldest uncle was wandering around saying he should have died first, and really needed all of us to assure him that we were thrilled to have him still with us as long.
Nevertheless, my dearest, darling, loving, accepting, sometimes funny and always good-humored Godfather had died. By the end of the weekend, I was depressed and self-medicating. Needless to say the trip back to Little Pond was wrapped in an alcohol-laced melancholy. That is to say, I remember nothing about it.
If I need to fly again, I willingly will submit to the scan. After all the MRI's due to MS, and the many mammograms due to a family history of ovarian and mammary cysts and tumors, a few more zaps ain't gonna amount to much more than a p-sshole in a snowdrift. And if I had to get groped, well, I guess I would request a cot so I could just lie back and enjoy it.
You see, when and if I am ever next to the religious-crazed nutbag who begins to light a match (or whatever), I will scream bloody murder. And I want everyone else around me to do likewise. I intend to go down kicking the $#!+ out of anyone who begins to look suspicious.
I'll deal with the legal ramifications later, if I'm wrong.
No one's likely to suffer unduly at my hands, but then again, with MS, I can take a few hits to the hands without feeling a thing until a tad later. By then, the other passengers can take over.
Who's with me?