“Just. Get. In. There,” I spoke to myself, more aggravated the harder I pushed it. When it finally slid into place, I let out a deep breath and leaned back into my seat.

Ah, the joys of flying on the cheapest airline possible.

Between the musky smell of this plane and my nausea-inducing apprehension about going home, I felt the need to keep the barf bag in close vicinity—just in case. A dull ache formed between my brows from the overstimulation of noisy passengers and crying children. My fingers trembled in my lap, and a bead of sweat rolled between my shoulder blades at the thought of being trapped on this plane. Everything inside me screamed to get out of this seat right now.

Only a four-hour flight. Four hours. That's like watching eight episodes of The Office, which is a typical binge session for me, no sweat.

I took in my surroundings; there were pamphlets and brochures about the airline, along with some tiny orange earplugs and a prepackaged black eye mask shoved in the seatback in front of me. The tablet screen above it displayed a map with lines showing our flight path from Point A to Point B.

West Palm Beach, Florida to Aspen, Colorado.

What a dumb flight. What were you even supposed to wear? If you wore pants here, you would sweat so much that you'd have to wring your socks out. Judging by the smell of the plane, someone had already done so. If you wore shorts, you'd be freezing cold and have permanent goosebumps when you landed. With all of that in mind, I’d settled on athletic shorts and a tank top with many, many layers packed in my unreasonably large handbag.

My flight anxiety was creeping up on me, and I suddenly wished I had bought some of those relaxing gummies that everyone says to take before flying. The kind at gas stations that look like peach rings but would make you feel like you’re in a circle with the That ‘70s Show crew.

If it was only the flight that I was concerned about, I wouldn’t be this high-strung. But it was who I was headed to see that had my stomach in seized knots. I hadn’t been in my right mind when my mom called me three weeks ago. She made it very clear she was worried about my social calendar when she texted me a screenshot of the WebMD page on scurvy, and then proceeded to tell me to eat an orange and open my blinds. So, I called her to confirm that I did, indeed, get enough vitamin c and my daily nutrients.

It was the day after Black Friday, and I had my phone on speaker as I sifted through my insurmountable pile of clothes and random household items that I certainly didn’t have room for.