1 in 3,200

In 48 hours, I will be landing in Bermuda for a lovely three-night getaway.  No kids.  Just my husband, me and some very close friends.

There will be a lot of relaxation.  And wine.

Am I excited?  Not just yet.  The truth is that I have to wonder if the trip will actually happen.

Because, let’s be honest, the residents of Fordeville have not had the best luck recently with the Travel Gods.  Lest we forget (I know I never will) — in July and August alone, someone in our family vomited in every state along the Eastern Seaboard from Rhode Island to North Carolina.

So far, I have seen no signs of stomach issues in the house to thwart our travels.  And, to be safe, I’ve made the executive decision that nobody is having any ground turkey in the next two days, as the recall continues.  Sorry, Taco Night — you’re on hiatus for now.

Next, I feared that a post-Irene September might bring more hurricanes and tropical storms — and that surely one would end up squarely at our resort.  Mercifully, that appears to be a non-issue.  The forecast looks dreamy.

So.  Dare I say, I have finally begun to allow myself to relax and look forward to this trip — which will be a nice break from the basement renovation chaos and just life in general.  I even began to browse the spa brochure — because that’s something I won’t be missing.

But then, I noticed something on the news.  Just a funny little headline about a satellite barreling towards Earth.

Seriously? That sucker is going to fall to the Earth in a fiery ball?

Sometime “between Thursday and Saturday.”

Somewhere “between Canada and South America.”

Somewhere “more than very likely over the ocean.”

Yeah.

Somewhere on my head, methinks.  In Bermuda.

The odds are 1 in 3,200 that someone will “suffer an injury from the debris.”

I mean, call me a skeptic but I think the chances of an “injury” from the debris are more like slim to none.  Unless by “injury” they actually mean “certain fiery death.”  Because you’re not going to get a little flesh wound from something falling on you from space.

Also, 1 in 3,200 wasn’t particularly comforting to me.  Especially after seeing this table of one’s odds of death by various means {source:  www.livescience.com}.

Am I a one-woman party, or what?

And can we refer to some of the examples in bold type for a second?  So NASA is telling me that the falling fireball of satellite debris is more likely to kill me than electrocution, or a snake/bee/other venomous bite/sting?  Seriously?  I mean, science is not a strength of mine, but I have to wonder if NASA might consider a different approach to satellite re-entry in the future, other than The Cosmic Crapshoot.

{Also, just for kicks, I find it odd that there’s a likelihood of death associated with legal execution.  I’m no statistician, but I would think one could significantly lower one’s odds by not committing a crime worthy of Death Row.}

Just when I started to raise an eyebrow toward outer space, I then came across this headline:

FEMA Ready With “Just in Case” Scenarios For Satellite Crash {source: CBS News}

Which sounds an awful lot to me like “Brace yourselves.  Especially people and tourists of Bermuda.”

So, while all of you take solace in the prevailing theory that this thing will make impact in the ocean — picture me sitting on a lovely beach, drink in hand, thumbing through the spa brochure again.  And looking upwards with a  nervous eye.

Come on Travel Gods — throw me a bone this time.  Spare my family from any vomiting, natural disaster and falling satellite debris.  Thanks a million.