THAT DAY

I'm taking dance and yoga classes. Feel shy, and dishonest. I'm not serious about dance. I'm mainly here to flirt and make friends.

Page encourages me. "Of COURSE you're here to make friends, what's wrong with that?"

Vicki, a diamond-faced, big-eyed catgirl, says "I'm here 'cause I'm an introvert; this forces me out."

Dance a duet with Molly the ballerina, making it up. FUN.

Karla says "I'm new to yoga". I'm shocked, she's so elegant at it. She adds "Come by after class, I have a bike I'm trying to give away." We walk over to Karla's apartment--not far. She smokes, sigh; I'm allergic to tobacco. Oh well. Meet her brother. And her pet rabbit Fufu.

Uh... now what? I can talk to sexy classmates without TOTAL panic... After years, I've undone that layer of abuse. But what's the next step?

I'm walking on the mudflats where I grew up. Dry grass, brush, winding tidal sloughs. On one islet, an airfield--new, not too developed. I walk there, hoping to get a plane ride from a tiny airline with big discounts. A crowd's walking across the islet. At first I think a plane crashed in the slough and these are survivors, but when I see a second line of travelers, and neither set's injured, soaking or mud-plastered, I figure this is normal; they got off their plane far from the terminal (just a shack)--no shuttles yet. Or pavement. Mud.

Then I realize I'm pulling along a two-engine jet, bigger than a piano. I wheel it forward... unsure how to steer. With a nose wheel, tail wheel, or by revving just one wing-engine? An airfield staffer yells "GREAT! you're HERE! You read the manual, right? So you're ready to GO!" He expects me to fly this plane--with no practice.

A crowd of 100 files on board.

I protest. "I'm not a pilot! I can't learn to fly with a plane full of passengers! It's one thing to risk myself, but I can't risk THEIR lives."

He says "Your turn on the runway. Bon voyage." A gust of wind hits the wings... and we're off the ground! I didn't even feed the engines. I turn them off! No matter. I still fly. Cup the wings, catch the air. They're part of ME now.

I'm not the pilot. I'm the plane.

Worry my doors are still open. Announce "Dog the hatches, fasten your seatbelts, prepare for a rough takeoff." I'm unsure if inducing panic is really wise--should I have skipped "Prepare for rough..."? Well, it's the truth, they need to take the strap-in warning seriously; and I can't help them now. We're off the ground, they can't get off.

I'd better learn how to be a plane.

I wake with Janis Ian singing From Me to You in my head:

I'm an inexperienced dancer, but it's time to take some initiative in composing that duet for class with Molly.

And in other things.

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