Clayton and I are minutes away from heading to the airport for a trip to Newport News, Virginia. My smart, personable husband has scored another interview. I wish I could say that I am totally excited about this trip; I should be considering the company is paying for everything and taking us out for a fancy schmancy dinner tonight. But there is a brick wall standing in between that hibachi restaurant and me: the flight. I don’t fly well. Like, at all. It’s a phobia that developed within the past five years, and maybe one day I’ll go into the whole story, but the gist is I can’t fly anymore. Not without feeling like I need to breathe into a paper bag. So, I really didn’t feel like dealing with that awful anxiety this time. Six hours to Seattle a few years ago was my last straw for attempting to conquer the fear on my own. This trip? Bring on the drugs! My doctor called in a prescription for me and I think it’s some derivative of valium. The actual name is fancy and I only recognize it because Paris had it in her purse in an episode of Gilmore Girls. I am a little wary of taking drugs. (By “wary” I mean I feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag when I think about taking it. Vicious cycle, party of one.) The hardest drug I’ve ever done is red wine, and even that has a tendency to turn me into a babbling, giggling special needs guest. But, there isn’t an alternative I’m willing to accept at this point, so Clayton better start practicing his “I’m so sorry about her, she’s not herself, I don’t even really know who she is” looks.