A Review: Raw-Dogging a Flight

If you’re gonna give it a go, proceed with caution.

Halfway to the airport I realize I’ve left my earbuds at my friend’s house.

Too late to go back now. I’ll make do without melancholy tunes en route to Chicago.

Sure not buying an overpriced spare pair at the airport.

Besides, I got ebooks and movies to pass the in-air hours. A true comfort.

After boarding I realize my iPad is dead. Plugged it into a faulty charger the night before.

That’s what I get for digitizing my book collection. And the Kindle’s back home.

No device redundancy when you’re livin’ out of a backpack.

There are no screens built into the seats of this still-brilliant machine so I can’t run back A Real Pain like I did on the way in.

Meaning too that the flight attendants will not be passing out complimentary headphones.

I ask if they have any spares lying around anyway and am summarily hooked up.

Wrong jack for an iPhone though. Fucking Apple. But they got me by the stones.

Sometimes brand loyalty only goes one way.

Things are getting bleak.

The laptop’s an option. But I sure as shit ain’t payin’ out the ass for wifi. Especially because it’s traditionally even less reliable than the flakiest of friends.

Could still write some stuff sans internet. Maybe even by hand in my notebook.

Or strike up a conversation with the poor person sat next to me.

That’s a guy I refuse to be. I do my best to diffuse awkward situations, not create them.

It occurs to me, though, that this is an opportunity to try something new. A thing I would never normally do.

You can paint yourself a victim of a negative, admittedly egregiously first-world situation.

Or you can embrace it and try your best to turn it into a regular goddamn delight of an experience.

I’m gonna raw-dog this fucking flight.

No devices. No food. No water. No shuteye. No distractions aside from your own introspective thoughts. No entertainment except whatever your little mind conjures along the way.

It’s a thing. A trend. Seems ill-advised. Uncomfortable for sure. Potentially dangerous and damaging to swirl around your psyche like that for the better part of three hours. Likely not for the faint of heart.

Probably a horrible idea. But if you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough.

Maybe I can find some glory in the introspection. Really get in there with my bad self and make the mundane magnificent.

I am skeptical. Not extremely optimistic.

Traditionally not one who is comfortable spending time alone with my thoughts.

They get pretty intrusive. More than dark more than occasionally. Can’t stop them. Have less-than-moderate success even containing them. Complete silence is a waking night terror. Attempts at meditation coax me into abject panic.

I’m pretty inept at sitting still both mentally and physically.

But for 180ish minutes I will be my own captive audience. Coming to myself live from an aisle seat toward the back of the bird, close to the lavatory.

I send a few quick texts and open Instagram out of impulse to give it one last look before takeoff. When the real party starts.

Out of habit tried and true, muscle memory at its most detrimental, my finger presses the search icon.

It pulls up all my recent searches. Not proud to admit this but it’s basically a laundry list of people who remind me of several of my many regrets. I seem incapable of a block and even if I mute my brain knows I can still look them up whenever I get the urge. Which is often.

I close the app. No need to poison the well by prompting memories that lead to excruciating laments. Remind myself to contemplate methods for forging a more healthy relationship with social media at long last.

Then I shut that shit down. Buckle the fuck in. It’s about to be wings up.

My watch goes in my pocket so I’m not tempted to clock the passing of time aside from in-flight updates. Those are unavoidable unless you’re prepared to raw-dog it beforehand and pack earplugs.

Or reach a transcendental state where you successfully block out everything around you.

It’s doubtful this will be my experience.

Ascent commences and I gird my loins.

I sit up straight. Mindful of my posture for once. Try not to slouch as I stare straight at the back of the seat in front of me.

Someone brought a Subway sandwich with onions and that distinctive scent can only be misconstrued, probably, as body odor.

My first attempt at letting something pass without giving it much thought.

Like the Headspace app has told me to do time and time again to no avail.

It does not work in this instance either.

Many find this smell repulsive to an offensive point when in a confined area but to me it’s enticing. Some are snobbish about Subway but it’s been a dietary staple for me since the salad days of my long-lost youth.

Won’t be my welcome home meal though. Going MingHin or Lao Szechuan for that. I spend the first however many minutes going through their respective menus by memory and choosing my impending culinary adventure.

A reward for pulling off a successful raw-dog if I make it. Failure will result in sending myself to slumber without supper.

Talk about upping the ante. Motivation is key. So is a self-threat of punishment.

But even a garbage disposal like myself can spend only so much time weighing the merits of breaking a fast with either twice-cooked pork or walnut shrimp. It’ll be a game-time decision anyway.

Then it becomes a psychological free-for-all up in my noggin.

The thoughts are eclectic but mostly palatable.

First hour or so, at least in my estimation, passes without much incident.

My reverie goes uninterrupted except for when snacks and drinks come by on the cart.

I say no thank you to both.

Rules is rules.

As predicted this practice levels up in difficulty the longer I stay locked in.

Contemplation shifts to a focus on the fulcrum of my many sensational fuckups.

The portion of my brain that can’t get past much of anything in a normal amount of time sees a time to shine even more than usual and it takes full advantage.

At first it’s far from fun. Feels reckless. Makes me restless.

I’m basically a poster person for meeting anxiety with active avoidance.

But against the grain I continue to go. Resolve to keep my composure.

One particular thought leads to a memory about therapy.

Something that usually coaxes me full-send into a spiral.

It’s not like you see a shrink to spout off about how fucking aces everything is.

In the early days of delving into many reasons why my check engine light always seemed to be on he told me about a strategy where you schedule daily time to worry.

It’s supposed to help you compartmentalize.

If you acknowledge them and give ’em a moment the demons might dial back and stop leaking all over every ensuing second.

I am paraphrasing his reasoning.

Never really gave it much of a shot because it seemed like a pretty crazy thing to do.

Not how you want to view a recommendation from a person you trust and pay hundreds of dollars a month to to listen to you talk and try to find methods to help you heal.

But by intentionally embarking on a raw-dog sojourn I have unwittingly thrown myself into giving it a shot.

Inspiration strikes. I will couple my worry time with one of the most powerful mental health improvement aids I have encountered aside from Abilify:

Talkin’ about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Specifically Cognitive Reframing.

That’s when you challenge and work to replace unhelpful thought patterns with more balanced and positive ones.

The conscious trying to outsmart the subconscious. Or at least keep it honest. Kind of.

Haven’t fully mastered it just yet but put it to work pretty often. Tends to yield positive results.

Never hurts anything anyway.

So when the negative thoughts come in hot my CBT training gets some serious reps.

Before too long it almost seems like what I’m doing is productive. Difficult as it is.

Like a few minutes on the StairMaster but for the mind.

Fatigue sets in with a quickness as I break such a rigorous mental sweat.

But sleep is off the table. Eyes open and forward.

Many interesting premises, ideas, phrases, lines bubble up that I’d normally immediately commit to paper or Evernote, worried I’ll forget something that could be a great story.

No notebook till Illinois though.

If it’s worth it I’ll remember it.

Eventually I do temporarily enter something of a fugue state.

I’ve overwhelmed myself and lean into a soft, heavy-lidded straightforward gaze for a while.

It’s kind of like blacking out or disassociating or just drawing a complete bank.

Honestly kind of relaxing.

The pilot hits the PA system to announce the beginning of our descent.

The end draws near.

An unquantifiable amount of time later he gets back on the mic to break the news we’ve gotta circle back around O’Hare and make our way to another runway.

Surprisingly, this does not break me.

Worries me slightly because I’ve recently discovered I have a genetic anomaly that makes me more prone to blood clots than the majority of humanity and am supposed to get up and move every so often when I’m on flights.

Should be fine though. Plus I’ve come too far and now it’s a matter of pride.

If I pull the phone out now it’ll all have been for nothing.

The wheels finally hit the ground and several people offer an ovation.

This doesn’t even phase me.

Neither does the arduous de-planing process where everyone in front of you always seems to lack the appropriate amount of hustle.

Maybe this is what zen feels like.

I plug back in while I wait.

Doesn’t seem like I’ve missed much of significance. If anything at all.

I make my egress from the aircraft and move on to the final leg of the round trip.

Homeward these weary bones go.

This has been quite an experience.

Far from the one I had the one time I ate a bunch of edibles I found in a bathroom trash can at the Denver Airport an hour before boarding a flight to DC. A story for another occasion.

No lie, I’d repeat either one. Though three hours is probably my maximum for many reasons including my pea-sized bladder.

I’m happy I have achieved clarity on at least two things in the midst of my experiment:

I’m going with the twice-cooked pork.

And sometimes the hardest part about flying is thinking happy thoughts.

Raw-dogging a flight: 2.5 STARS