Our house was pretty affordable, and there’s one really good reason for that:
As the planes take off over my backyard, I can easily tell you which airline it is. Y, being some kind of transportation savant, could tell you whether it’s a 747, 737, or CR80 by the number of windows or something.
I don’t hate the planes.
I mean, there’s a part of me that hates being on a plane. That’s the part of me that refuses to watch a TV show featuring a plane crash (so I guess I’m okay with This is 40 for ruininng the ending of of Lost for me).
That’s also the part of me that once bought a book to read on a plane, then tweeted the author to make sure there were no plane crashes in the book. She said no. THEN THERE WAS AN ENTIRE CHAPTER ABOUT WATCHING 911 UNFOLD FROM MANHATTAN.
I don’t hate the planes. Because a bigger part of me loves what happens before and after air travel. The anticipation. The packing (I may be the only person on earth that loves to pack). The airport (I know I’m the only human on earth that loves airports). Arriving in a completely different state, country, continent. Having an excuse to buy a new book and eat overpriced fast food.
The planes constantly flying over my neighborhood remind me that I’m literally minutes from an adventure.
(We also got free updated insulation and triple paned windows out of the deal, so that doesn’t suck.)