Now that Christmas is packed away and the Chia Pets/Clappers/K-Tel records returned, life can return to normal.

Semi-normal, anyway.

From now until spring break, I’ll be in my Jealous Mode—I know I won’t be one of those bronze people returning from some 85-degree beach and wearing white T-shirts during Monday classes. I won’t be on Club MTV from Daytona, I won’t buy Coppertone SPF1 and I won’t have to share a beer-soaked hotel room with 20 strangers. Though I’d kill to go to Florida (or anywhere south of the Windy City in March), I am petrified of flying.

I have flown before, but that was back in seventh grade, I never unbuckled my seat belt and, against my true nature, refused a cheese danish and beer nuts. Since that white-knuckled experience, the closest I get to flying is staying home and renting “Airplane” for the millionth time.

As you may have guessed, I am not the seasoned traveler. I can literally count the states I have visited on one hand—and all but one are border states. This does not help my geographical skills; I have trouble finding Wyoming on a U.S. map. But hey, I could tell you where to waterski and buy worms in Michigan and Wisconsin.

When I feebly attempt to explain my phobia to people they widen their eyes incredulously and exclaim, “But whyyyy? Don’t you knowwww that flying is safer than the carrr we’re riding innnn?”

Possibly, but I’d rather get rear-ended than hurtle to the ground in a ball of flame at 20,000 mega-miles an hour while blond stewardesses (oops, “flight attendants”) clutch their intercoms and plead, “Now don’t panic!!” I can think of better ways to go, believe me.

Unreasonable? Paranoid? Yes, but when I learned a family friend was aboard the flight that crashed in Sioux City last July, my fear was justified. Luckily, he survived and I had a chance to interview him, which only made my jitters worse when he described the crash and carnage.

He said he’ll fly again, but after an experience like that, I think I’d pull a John Madden and motorhome it everywhere.

Why do we have these silly phobias? Though they may deny it, most people possess certain “irrational, persistent dreads” (from Websters—I’m not that smart) and get sweaty palms when they’re around the object of their dread. Besides airplanes, I generally tend to avoid the top floor of tall buildings (you will never see me anywhere in the Sears Tower except the cafeteria or gift shop) and ski lifts. I am also one of those annoying people who check the mailbox twice or three times to see if that nasty little postal elf took my envelopes.

I know I can’t possibly be the only one who does that—stick around a post office for a while and you’ll see what I’m talking about. I’m sure other people find ski lifts perilous, considering how packed the lodge bars always are. And I do have friends (really, I do) who say they have to get hammered before takeoff to make it through the flight.

Since we still have two months (and counting) to go until break, I may overcome my air scare, come up with the fare and head toward a sunny state. Then again, the tanning spa is close by and open 24 hours a day.