I'm heading for Boise tomorrow morning, bright and early. I wish I enjoyed traveling more than I do, but the fact of the matter is that it makes me very nervous. I'm not exactly sure why. I'm not afraid of accidents--I know they can't be predicted or avoided (which is why they're called accidents), so I don't live in fear of them. I'm not afraid of anything, really, except getting sick in-flight, and that's controllable with medication.
Perhaps what makes me nervous is that travel involves functioning on someone else's schedule. I'm neurotically punctual, so I can't stand being on a plane that's late. I really, really hate missing a connecting flight. When I have a schedule, I want to stick to it. The logical part of my brains knows it's really no big deal--there's always another flight, or a hotel room with my name on it--but I still can't seem to resist getting stressed out before I talk myself down. This is the price of being a control freak.
It's more than just the travel, though. When we were younger and first married, my husband and I traveled a lot. We visited lots of big cities, we went to Europe, we took road trips just for the sake of getting out of town--staying home was the last thing on our minds. These days, though, that's what makes us both happier than anything else. A nice long afternoon at home, baking bread and reading a book--that's my idea of a perfect day. My friend Denise told me once that her sons often worry about her spending so much time at home; "Don't you get lonely? Don't you want to get out of the house and be around people?" And Denise has to explain, once again, that she did plenty of getting out in another chapter of her life. It's just not an interesting prospect anymore.
I'm only visiting family, not a foreign country, so I'll have plenty of time for hanging out at home. My mom's home. The house where I grew up. But it always feels like home again after I've been there for awhile.
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