Notes from 32,000 feet

I dislike flying.

I used to dislike flying simply because it was a minor pain in the crotch.  Driving to airports, layovers, delays; these were the slight inconveniences of air travel.

Now, however, one is required to take off shoes and belt and display anti-wrinkle cream in a one-quart baggie; fees are assessed for seat-selection and baggage-checking priveleges; one gets yelled at by a TSA agent for minor infractions (like sending one's minor child through the line with her passport) and then one's underwire bra is subject to scanned or patted-down scrutiny.  Pain-in-the-crotchness is de riguer and no longer minor, but monstrous. 

But that's not why I dislike flying. 

I dislike it because the older I get, the more inclined I am to overthink things, and the whole idea of a pressurized metal tube hurtling through the air at 500 miles per hour, under the absolute control of a single individual who may or may not be well-rested and sober, gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies. 

Am I right?