If something feels off up there, it’s not in your head
Hey Reader,
Old Faithful says when there’s a problem, it usually takes two.
I’ll admit it… I like to mess with you sometimes. Especially when you trap yourself in a metal tube at 35,000 feet.
Up there, you’re white-knuckling the armrest, practicing your box breathing. The overhead vent blasts air straight into your face, while the guy in front of you reclines into your ribcage. Did these seats get smaller?
Meanwhile, you’ve Googled “can turbulence break a plane” twice… and you’ve only been in the air thirty minutes. Ginger ale cures nausea. Right?
Adorable. You're so worried about the plane falling out of the sky that you haven't noticed what the sky is doing to you.
Welcome to Week 27 where we talk about your body at cruising altitude. You don’t need turbulence to make your stomach turn.
Running on Thin Air
You know how airplane food tastes like someone described flavor to AI? That's not entirely the airline's fault. At cruising altitude, cabin pressure is equivalent to standing on an 8,000-foot mountain. Nasal passages swell and dry out, and your ability to taste sweet and salty drops by roughly 30%.
Airlines know this. So, they crank the salt and seasoning up to levels that would make your cardiologist faint. That tiny foil tray isn't just bad food — it’s overcompensated flavor engineering, built for a tongue that’s barely functioning.
Lufthansa actually commissioned a study in a pressurized lab to figure out why passengers kept ordering tomato juice. Turns out, umami is the one flavor that gets a boost at altitude, and tomato juice is loaded with it. So when you find yourself thinking, “I could’ve had a V8!” — just know you’ve got a refined palate flying in Coach.
The Mile-Cry Club
Flight attendants see a lot. People coming apart mid-flight is one of them. A Virgin Atlantic survey found 55% of passengers reported heightened emotions during flights. One in three said they’d cried watching an in-flight movie that wouldn’t have gotten so much as a sniffle on their couch.
At cruising altitude, your blood oxygen drops to around 93% — messing with your prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for emotional regulation. Add dehydration, exhaustion, a touch of claustrophobia as you hurtle through space, and suddenly a Pixar movie about a golden retriever has you ugly-crying into your complimentary napkin.
That mild hypoxia isn't just making you weepy, it’s making you dim – reduced attention, slower reaction times, impaired short-term memory. You're making decisions about connecting flights and customs forms with the mental acuity of someone who's had two glasses of wine.
This is why pilots breathe supplemental oxygen while you nosh on a bag of Biscoff cookies.
The Balloon Effect
Remember Boyle's law from high school? No, I had friends.
Fine. Gas expands as pressure decreases. At cruising altitude, the gas inside your body expands by about 30%. Your stomach, your intestines, your sinuses — all inflating like balloons at a backyard birthday party.
This is why you feel bloated on a plane. It's not the airport Cinnabon. Not entirely, at least. Your intestinal gas is literally expanding inside you. Airlines don't talk about this because "your farts get 30% bigger at altitude" is a tough slogan to put on a billboard.
Your ears pop for the same reason. Air pressure shifts, and your middle ear tries to keep up. But if you’re flying with a cold, those Eustachian tubes swell shut, leaving the pressure nowhere to go. It’s exactly the kind of pain that makes you rethink Thanksgiving with the in-laws.
And if you've ever had a toothache appear out of nowhere mid-flight, that's barodontalgia – gas trapped near dental fillings and cavities expands against your teeth. It’s an aeronautical early warning system…for your dentist.
High and Dry
Cabin humidity sits between 10–20%, drier than even the Sahara Desert which clocks in at a luxurious 25%. Your skin, your eyes, your throat — all lose moisture faster than you can replenish with those tiny cups of water. A long‑haul flight costs you about 1.5 liters just through breathing and skin evaporation. And if you’re in the window seat, just know there’s less atmosphere above you to block UV rays.
By the time you land, you’re basically a raisin.
And it’s not just uncomfortable. Dry mucous membranes are your first line of immune defense. Knock those out, and suddenly the person behind you who won’t stop coughing isn’t just annoying. She’s a preview of your future.
Carry-On Cures
Mother Nature, I’ve got a vacation next month. How am I supposed to drive to Bermuda?
Don’t stress, just follow my advice.
Drink water before you're thirsty — 8 oz every hour. Skip the alcohol. It dehydrates you twice as fast.
Chew gum while taking off and landing to equalize ear pressure. If you're congested, try the Valsalva maneuver — pinch your nose and gently blow until your ears pop. Can't get them to budge? Grab a pair of EarPlanes before boarding. Three bucks to avoid a ruptured eardrum feels like a fair trade. And if you’re really sick, just stay home.
Walk the aisle every couple hours — blood pools in your legs. Don’t risk a blood clot just to avoid disturbing the guy in the aisle seat. He knew what he signed up for.
And if you feel a cry coming on? Let it happen. You won’t see these people again.
One thing you can't fix: the gas expansion. That one's just physics. I'd apologize, but you could lay off the carbonated beverages and do everyone around you a favor.
Progress, not perfection.
Mother Nature
⭐️ This week's letter was inspired by Sue and René in Everett, WA, who asked for tips on surviving the friendly skies.
📪 Got a question for me? Hit reply. I’ve got 4.5 billion years of opinions.
