I am excited. It is only hours before a season of travel begins, and instead of getting ready I’m sitting here writing about how I’m not ready. Thoughts about traveling are fighting to get out of my head.
I am going to my first, original home to be with family and friends, celebrating Thanksgiving. I love everyone I am going to be with. Even before that, I love talking to strangers in the airport and on the plane. I love being free to watch what is going on around me and observe people. There is such freedom in not having a job to do other than keeping bombs from being planted in my luggage. Almost every routine of my daily life is changed to something new.
Flight attendants bring me the beverage of my choice – this happens never at home.
I get to sit in/drive a nearly new car.
I can eat fast food without feeling guilty because it’s about the only choice.
And at my destination I have that unique position of half guest, half helper. It allows me to work alongside others and see what is going on in their lives. It means I can stay up late visiting if there’s an opportunity, or get up early and have that first cup of coffee with someone special. It means I can probably take a nap if I’m tired, or take a couple hours off to write or read. There’s time to think about living while I’m doing it.
And even while the excitement builds, there’s a conflict. I feel it every time. I am a split personality when it comes to travel. There is so much to like about being away, and yet I am as much a home body as anyone could be. I love my home, the husband, the cats, the yard, the old car, the commitments, the friends, even the job (sort of) (don’t spread that around). To be happy and involved in one place, you have to lose touch with where you’re not. And even when I know I’m coming back, there is a bit of sadness in stepping away from the familiar.
Will the husband be able to find food in the refrigerator?
Will my strawberry plants die if we get a freeze?
Will my cat forgive me for being gone?
Will I come back to a mountainous pile of junk mail? Laundry?
Will I be the same person that I was? Probably not.
I’m just sayin’, here we go again…
One thought on “Here we go again…”
THERE IS A REASON I WROTE THE POEM ABOUT SHIRLEY THAT SAID. ”COMPARED TO HER THERE IS NO OTHER” SHIRLEY IS ”SHIRLEY” AND THERE WILL BE NO CHANGE, HOW CAN YOU CHANGE SUCH NEAR PERFECTION??