On travelling

My brother calls it “travel anxiety.”

Right before I take a trip – the week-ish leading up to the journey and in particular the day before – I become irritable and anxious and strangely bitchy. My brother  and Mom get the same way (maybe Dad does too, but he’s a tough hand to read). I’ve had multiple dreams (see previous entries) where I’m about to leave for a trip and must pack in hurry. In each of these dreams, I’m yelling and cussing at everyone as I scramble to get my shit together (literally and figuratively). It’s pretty ridiculous, but sadly it’s not much of an exaggeration.

I hate that I get this way, but I’ve no idea how to head it off at the pass. I love spontaneity and randomness (probably) moreso than the next person, but I love it in a “I’ve still planned for the worst case scenario” kind of way. Go ahead: call me a lamezoid, but don’t come bitching to me when you need a Tide pen (never leave home without one) or a lighter (always comes in handy) or bail money (tucked into strategic places on my person and/or luggage).

In fact, I usually get so wrapped up in these details that I’ll sometimes neglect the big picture: on various trips, I’ve forgotten to pack deodorant, underwear, socks, or a change of clothes (all unfortunately true stories). But did I have a travel iron, scissors, hand sanitizer or a map of Tennessee State Parks? Of course! (also, all true stories).

I could dig deeper into my personal psyche and probably come up with a reason why I get so belligerent, but there’s a reason why I dropped out of that particular graduate degree program. Suffice to say, getting caught completely and totally off-guard really puts a crimp in my style.

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