I consider myself a pretty rational person. I don’t worry about stupid things, like zombies or the apocalypse or aliens or botulism. I don’t think I will die from dried rat urine on a can of soda I drink, or from a sliver of crystal that finds its way into my bloodstream. I don’t pay much attention to the chain emails that say “Snopes certified!” at the bottom, because I know they’re not. I’m not worried about AIDs-laced syringes hidden in payphones, and I don’t think it’s very plausible that tanning beds will cook me alive from the inside out – but I don’t tan, anyway. Waste of money.
I do have an irrational fear, though, and I think it’s one that many people share. I have a slight fear of dying in a plane crash. Totally irrational.
I’m not going to bother going into the statistics of it, because I know that everyone who’s reading this can use Google. But the probability of dying in a plane crash is probably worse than the probability of dying of falling down an elevator shaft.
I know all this.
It’s just the total and complete helplessness of it all. You can’t do anything to save yourself if you’re miles up in the sky.
We humans like to be in control. That’s why most of us prefer to drive instead, even though we all know idiots in our lives, and we know those idiots have driver’s licenses, and logically we can’t all know the same idiots, so there have to be lots of them out there driving their cars at us like giant bullets fired out of some giant car-gun. But we drive anyway.
It’s somehow not as scary.
I really hope the next topic ignites some kind of passion in me. This is getting sad.
No comments:
Post a Comment