Landlubber’s lub of land not easily broken

I'm having a bit of a moral dilemma today. Well, not really today, but sort of a future moral dilemma. Future as in next June, to be exact. And moral as in, well, kind of more fear-based. Sorry for dithering.

See, I have a friend named Mac. Well, not really named Mac -- what kind of parents would name their little girl Mac, especially in 1945 when every little girl was called Mary or Linda (I think it was a law, or something) or Susan, which is actually Mac's real name. Her last name is McDonald, however, which is how some folks started calling her Mac, which was long before I ever knew her, and where am I going with this? Sorry again.

In any case, Mac just turned 65, which is evidently a big deal, although I wouldn't -- and will never -- know personally, and we had a birthday dinner for her, where another friend, Monti, who is 59 (I really need to get some younger friends) decided that for her 60th next June, she wants our little group of friends to take a trip to Las Vegas and celebrate her birthday out there.

This would be really fun, mostly because my column appears in the Las Vegas Review-Journal, and I'd finally get a chance to meet all those folks at the paper to whom I e-mail my columns and invoices and crises and mistakes and dramas and techno-troubles -- I'm betting they'll all have sudden "prior commitments" when I'm there -- and, I absolutely love to gamble ... as long as I win.

So, what's the problem, you ask? Besides the fact that it has taken me half the column to get to the point? Well, the problem is that when most folks think of going to Nevada from North Carolina, they picture an airplane. I do not. I try never to picture an airplane. Even if I'm contemplating a trip to Italy, I do not picture an airplane. I may picture a boat ... a train ... water skis ... even a catapult ... never an airplane. I may have mentioned several zillion times that I hate flying, but it still needs to be said. And, I think it has been made extremely clear by every possible airline and regulatory institution that we are no longer meant to fly. Listen up, people! Someone "up there" (very punny) is trying to tell us something!

Besides the actual leaving of the ground in a 250,000 pound piece of metal and expecting it to stay up there when all human logic tells one differently ... I would not be allowed on an airplane at this point in this country. I don't know if the new privacy-invading techniques are in every airport now, but let me tell you, until I lose some weight and can afford some nice nonmommy lingerie, I would never submit to them -- not the pat-downs (because, if you intend to touch me anywhere except, say, my hands, you're going to need a marriage license, a movie career and a huge diamond first) and certainly not the (as my little ones call it) "nakey-noo-noo" pictures.

Don't get me wrong -- I had my share of opportunities to pose for such in my younger days. Well, no one actually offered, but if they had, I was ... uh ... physically in way better shape to accept, OK? But now, let's just say, that is not so much the case. Naturally, others in our group on the way to Las Vegas could do that in total comfort -- if not total modesty, which Sister Mary Lucille always said was way more important -- but, not I, no siree, and this might cause me to be restrained and scrutinized and flagged and humiliated, which would force my friends to make the difficult, unhappy -- and clearly witchy decision to go without me.

So, I'm thinking now of possibly renting one of those cute little van-sized RVs somewhere, talking one of my least witchy friends out of flying, throwing in the dogs to save dog-sitting money, and driving out to Nevada. I mean, sure, gasoline is like what now -- $14 a gallon? But still, my way, you don't pay for flights, hotels, even food -- assuming I pack what's in my house right now, which includes peanut butter, leftover fruitcake, Christmas cookies, Lean Cuisines past their expiration dates, old lettuce, a few bananas, dog food and the remains of my first -- and last -- excursion into Thai cookery. The only things I'd have to pay for would be gasoline and a possible Celine Dion show. And, of course, I'll be able to cover all that after an hour at the blackjack table, of which, interestingly, Sister Mary Lucille fully approved.

Or, we could just skip Monti's birthday -- I never liked her anyway.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.