Fretting about flying

5/6/2026

The sky is definitely falling.

How do I know this? Because when we should be heading to the bunker, we’re going to instead fly eight miles high over an ocean in several hundred tons of metal. Yup, my wife and I are flying out of Iowa to visit our daughter and her partner in Ireland. It’s the perfect time to go. Let’s review the events of the week we travel: unpaid TSA agents are not showing up to work causing long delays at security; a plane crashes into a firetruck on the tarmac at LaGuardia Airport; the U.S. started a war with Iran, who responds by shooting missiles at other countries and maybe that will include planes flying to Ireland with important Iowa dignitaries. Of course, we’re not important Iowa dignitaries, but what if they get confused by my wife’s smart airplane outfit?

And then there’s this backpack in which I always carry just a little too much. Sure, I can get it on by lying down and slipping on the straps, but when I try to get up, I collapse into the corpse pose. It is a fun yoga pose to do in the privacy of your own home but not so good on the carpet in Terminal A.

So, I fret about all this.

Listen, I love Stoicism and Zen Buddhism and Alcoholics Anonymous — “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” But someone has to fret. My mom held that position for nearly 98 years, and now it’s my turn. Yup, it’s a calling.

For my besieged wife, this means arriving at the Des Moines International Airport hours early for our flight to Ireland. It’s just what I do. Sorry.

But I’ve been burned in the past. Not so long ago, I flew out of Denver where the security line started OUTSIDE the terminal. I dutifully stood in line, even though it was like standing outside a Taylor Swift concert hoping to buy a nonexistent ticket — you know it will never happen and that there’s a strong possibility that standing in line could be how you spend your final years.

See, I’m a trauma victim. 

So, today I insist that we get to the airport early. And, yes, “insist” might not be strong enough. I rush and rush and rush my poor wife — no time for breakfast, no time for coffee, just grab your phone and passport and run.

I sprint to the car, yelling all the way — “LET’S GO!”

And off we go to the airport, where we race to the security line knowing the whole time that we’re going to be late and we’re going to miss our connection in Minneapolis and we’ll be detained by ICE and eventually we’ll be sent to a prison in El Salvador or, at a minimum, returned to our country of origin — Boone, Iowa. HELP!

Run faster. Jump the barrier. Go go go.

Here’s what we see of the security line at the Des Moines International Airport.

Oops.

I’ve been reading a little Taoism in my old age. Lao Tzu says in the Tao Te Ching, “To live till you die is to live long enough.” I like that.

Unfortunately, my wife feels I might be at that “long enough” point right now.

Once in seats made for much smaller people, she mutters, “You’re on my side.” 

She’s not saying this in a motivational “Let’s go! Team Weeg!”  No siree.

I scoot over as much as I can but immediately drop a headphone case between my legs onto the floor.

Well, that’s gone — whether it’s a bag of airplane pretzels or a small child, only a Las Vegas contortionist could retrieve something from that abyss.

And there you have it — the journey to getting on the plane. Fretting at its purest.

But — HERE’S THE WONDERFUL SECRET — once you get on the plane, once the journey to getting in your seat is over, airplane travel offers an antidote to fretting. Yup, I know there are some disbelievers out there, but let’s look at it. You have absolutely NO control over what happens once you’re on the plane. You’re not driving. You’re not navigating. You don’t decide when drinks will be served. You buckle up or don’t buckle up totally on command of a small, Pavlovian overhead light. You can stand, but it’s frowned upon. You can go to the bathroom, but please make it quick. “Do you want chicken or pasta?” That’s enough time for that decision. “How about you — chicken or pasta?”

Even with my fretting mom, if you could get her away from home, sit her down, take away every possible choice, she relaxed.

Shhhhhhhhh … just watch the river flow past.

And, so it goes on the plane.

My wife leans into my shoulder. My eyes shut. My head droops.

Peace.

Look at that, the sky isn’t falling after all. ♦

Joe Weeg spent 31 years bumping around this town as a prosecutor for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Now retired, he writes about the frequently overlooked people, places and events in Des Moines on his blog: www.joesneighborhood.com.