In 1989, I temporarily halted flights coming into and out of San Diego's Lindbergh Field because I am afraid to fly.

My then-partner, we'll call her The Ex, and I were flying to Las Vegas for the weekend. She'd called me at work one day a few weeks earlier and said, "It's only $58 round trip. Cheap. I'll get them. Are you sure can get in the plane? Are you sure?" And I said I was sure because the actually flight was weeks away and my stomach only hurt a little bit when I thought about it. Of course, it hurt a little bit more each day.

The Ex scheduled a 5am flight. She figured I'd be too tired to argue. She took me out the night before and kept me dancing until midnight. She knew that, sleepy, I took direction well. Her plan was to get me on the plane before I knew what was going on.

We got there and turned in our tickets and walked out to the plane. Out onto the tarmac and up the stairs onto the plane. Well, in theory, we walked up the stairs to the plane. The Ex was half way up when she realized that I was not near her. I was still standing on the ground. She came back down.

"What's wrong," asked The Ex.

"The plane only has two engines."

"We need to get on."

"Do you know how many things can happen to an engine? More than two things. How can it have only two engines?"

"Let's get on. We'll be in Las Vegas in half an hour. Close your eyes the whole trip."

"Two engines. I'm not getting on any two engine plane."

Back inside, I had to tell the man working for the airlines why I couldn't get on the plane.

"I'm afraid," I said.

"What," he asked.

"I'm afraid."

So they searched the plane because they figured "afraid" meant "I snuck a bomb on while no one was looking and now would like to leave the airport before it all goes up in flames."

We drove to Las Vegas. One of the nicest things The Ex ever did for me. Though she did keep the non-refundable tickets. She glued them in our scrap book but never used them as a weapon. Or at least, not very often.