...when your Gay Husband calls you and cheerfully announces that one of the engines on the plane he was on this morning EXPLODED.
The Gay Husband has a bizarre (to me) and deep love and appreciation for aviation, has worked for airlines, made me take him on a airplane-related tourist activity on his last visit...so his response to all this was measured calm and mild curiosity.
My response, on the other hand, even though as he was on the phone telling me this so clearly he was safe, was to nearly pass out then nearly start to cry.
I don't like planes. I don't like flying. The planes are so BIG and HEAVY. I don't believe in the physics that keep them aloft. I just can't believe it! You can explain it to me a hundred times, I still react like some superstitious dark ages ignoramus who thinks it's all DEVIL MAGIC.
I went through a weird period post-9/11 where I was seriously COMPLETELY terrified to fly. Not, mind you, because of terrorists. I think my brain had some kind of meltdown, though, after seeing the planes fly into the buildings over and over again. It's like we have an understanding of what planes can and cannot do, and to see that totally broke down my subconscious understanding of What Planes Do. Like because my brain couldn't process the horror of what had happened, it just stopped...almost like believing in flight at all. It is obviously a totally irrational thing to think - but I guess being irrational is sometimes how your brain handles things it finds too horrible to process rationally.
Anyway, with time that all faded and I can now get on a plane and not feel gripped with utter terror.
Nevertheless. THE ENGINE EXPLODED. Gay Husband wants to research the nitty gritty of what happens during such accidents. I want to crawl under my bed and cling to the ground.