From what my mom and dad have told me, I will turn 40 next week. While sometimes I question their math, there are other times, for instance when I reach for my new reading glasses or grunt when moving from a seated position to standing, that I trust their calculations.

To celebrate, my husband and I are going to Mexico this winter with a few friends on a weeklong quest for that lost shaker of salt. Even better, we had enough miles saved up to fly to Margaritaville on Citibank’s dime.

I (salsa) danced around the house after booking our free tickets until I recalled a recent dinner conversation with my friend, Ned, about my fear of flying. Unlike my fear of crashing, my fear of flying involves sitting safely in my seat but subject to whomever fate places next to me from takeoff to landing.

Ned, who was in town for a night, had just secured prime boarding for his return flight the next day.

“This is great!” I congratulated him. “Now you can scan people as they board for a good one to sit next to you. Make sure you pick one who doesn’t smell like an armpit.”

He nodded in agreement, probably assuming that was the end of my list and dinner would carry on without further rant. He was wrong.

“It’s bad enough to be forced to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with a stranger, but when that stranger has clearly not invested in a bar of soap since the early ’90s, the flight becomes unbearable.”

Ned was busy eating his sandwich, so I continued.

“Smokers, garlic breath, cologne abusers, people who smell like their pets, people who bring tuna salad to eat on the plane,” I rattled.

“Anyone else?” Ned asked with a smile that both shamed and encouraged me.

“People who chew gum with their mouths open, people who refuse to blow their noses during allergy season, complete strangers who show me pictures of their kids.” Fearful that might have sounded a bit cold, I explained. “I have my own kids. If I need to see a picture of kids, I’ll look at mine.”

Ned took another bite.

“People who snore, people who ask me where my ruby slippers are, people who play Boggle on their iPads and then turn them away from me when they notice I am looking over their shoulders.” This was better than therapy. Ned is an excellent listener when he is hungry.

“People in the aisle seat who fall asleep right when I need to use the restroom, people who crawl on top of me to use the restroom when I’m trying to nap…”

I could have continued well into dessert, but Ned was ready to leave. I can’t imagine why.

“I really wish I could distribute a questionnaire to fellow passengers before boarding,” I said as we walked out the door. “Although my husband thinks I’m too picky.”

“I can assure you, Julie,” he said with a smile, “he is not alone.”