Eight and counting

Sometimes I find I can't breathe.

I'm awakened in the middle of the night by a pup who needs a potty break; or I'm mopping or dusting--doing the mindless stuff; or I'm looking at a copy of an e-mail and a fax that has our--gulp--seating arrangements for our flights. Those are just a few of the times that I can't breathe.

Flying is a phobia that I'll be facing more than twice in the next several months. Both times I've made the decision to go someplace that required an airplane. This time was prompted by someone else. The other I chose myself.

God help me.