This post was originally published on this site
I’m shaking in my yoga pants. Newark Airport feels like a meat locker, but the real culprit is my impending trans-Atlantic flight, which, I’m convinced, is destined for the bottom of the ocean. Thanks to a lifelong fear of air travel, my preboarding ritual is panic. I’m spending my supposed last moments shivering and speed walking between Jamba Juice and Gate 62, where my fiancé, John, stands tethered to a phone charging station, like a…