I don’t like traveling. In fact, I kinda hate it. But why?
1. I don’t like leaving. Seriously, I love our house. I love hanging on the sofa. My life’s pretty full these days, so when I have the chance to do nothing but lay around with the hounds, I’m as happy as a clam. A clam who enjoys spending time with dogs.
2. I don’t like the expense. To be fair, I think that’s pretty weak rationale: it’s always costly to go places, it’s never an especially good time. I could avoid leaving my house for the rest of my life with that lame excuse.
3. I don’t like the work that piles up while I’m gone. By the time I get back to my desk and sort through all the snail mail and email and memos and whatnot, I need a vacation. Surely you see the irony.
4. I don’t like flying. Not that I’m afraid of airplanes and hurtling across the stratosphere at hundreds of miles an hour (though it’s not my fave thing to do). No, I hate the ritual of flying: the lines, the checkpoints, the anxiety of hurrying up and waiting. From dashing to the counter to worrying if you’re going to make it before they shut the cabin doors to zipping down the runway, it’s all so fast and thoroughly unpleasant. One might even say: uncivilized.
5. I can’t see the vacation for the travel. In part because I hate flying so much, I can’t look past that and get excited about the destination. Like, point A is interesting, and point B is interesting, but getting from one to the other is not.
Anyway, all that’s moot because by the time you read this, I’ll be on my way. See you soon.