There’s so much that happens before I even buy a ticket. I research policies because every airline has one now for “passengers of size.” All of them include the possibility that I will be charged double, or denied a seat on the plane the day of the flight, leaving me to explain to my boss, partner, friend, family why they won’t be seeing me this week.

Southwest famously let director Kevin Smith board, then publicly escorted him off the plane for looking too fat for his seat. United will refuse to board you unless you agree to purchase an additional ticket at the day-of price, and who has $600 to spare? I check first-class prices, where seats are slightly wider and put me at less risk of passenger complaints. $1,000. I move on.

The anxiety doesn’t subside once I buy a ticket — it distills, intensifying for weeks leading up to the flight.

JetBlue doesn’t have a policy — which means it is the most unsafe of all. I flash back to my last flight on JetBlue, when a passenger loudly complained to a flight attendant while I sat next to him about how he couldn’t be expected to travel like this. She moved him to another seat, switching him with another passenger. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me for the entire flight. Neither would the other passengers in my row. I was so big, and so invisible. This could happen again. I blink back tears.

The anxiety doesn’t subside once I buy a ticket — it distills, intensifying for weeks leading up to the flight. I think about how to eliminate every other stressor. Passengers hate it when someone takes too long loading their bag into the overhead compartments. I pay to check a bag so my fellow passengers won’t have additional reasons to complain about me.

I practice how I will sit on the plane, pushing my body against the cabin wall, one arm holding the other firmly over my chest, so that I will make no physical contact with the person sitting next to me. I bring mints, so I won’t need anything to drink, and so the flight attendant won’t have to reach across the row for the fat person. I research whether the airports I’ll pass through have a history of confiscating seat belt extenders. If I bring my own, I’ll be spared the white-hot spotlight of asking the flight attendant for one.

In the days before the flight, friends tell me I seem distant. A few of my closest friends know that this means I am getting on an airplane. They get quiet, uncertain of what to say or do. The night before the flight, my best friend and I get drinks at a neighborhood bar. Normally, we speak boisterously, laughing uproariously and making friends with other patrons at the bar. Tonight, we don’t say much. Our happy hour ends quickly, and we silently walk home.

I don’t sleep that night. At 1:30 a.m., I think about everything I’ve been doing to get healthy. Last month, the doctor said my blood pressure was good, and that I had a healthier exercise regimen than most of the patients she sees. She couldn’t figure out why I was still fat. Neither could I. For nearly a week afterward, I felt inexplicably sad. At 3:00 a.m., I fantasize about what could happen to spare me from the humiliation that feels destined to happen. Maybe if I wear two layers of Spanx, which itch and hurt. Maybe if there’s a surprise snowstorm. Maybe if I start throwing up.