Tripping Out: No Point Really

Traveling brings out the worst in me. Maybe I had a bad experience in a past life on the Mayflower. Whatever the reason, I'm glad that my husband had the chance to experience my traveling dark side before "I do," was his final answer.

He put me through the travel gymnastics with backpacking and camping in places like Europe and China that would send a lot of people screaming. I'm good on the journey, just don't put me on the plane, train or car with my suitcase.

I hate pretty much everything about the whole transit experience--except getting to my destination. If our trip is short, than my travel anxiety meets itself at the door, planning my return trip strategy before I take out my first pair of fresh underwear.

I'm not afraid of flying, though I do experience motion sickness on landing. I'm not afraid of seeing new things or the challenges of language and culture. Darn! If I could tell you what the heck it was that made me certifiable crazy during the travel portion of travel I'd just go ahead and tell myself to stop it.

I'm better if I travel alone. It's not that I'm any better, and I certainly don't enjoy it more, I just have no one to whine to, snap at or witness my ridiculous behaviour. Putting another soul through my personal hell is embarrassing and painful for me to watch. It's like a recurring bad dream: I see myself and hear myself, but I can't stop myself.

If I had to travel regularly, I'd probably just stay home in my pjs. I'm not a homebody by any means and I love to experience all of the things that traveling far from home has to offer. Yet, if Scotty could beam me somewhere, I think we'd all have a better time.

On our super comfy, business class flight to London last week, my husband ordered me whatever alcohol that was being offered. The offering was a sacrifice to crazy god: me in my stricken state. He would put it in front of me and back away with hands open and up using body language to say that I should have no fear and he was a friend.

Travel can be flawless and smooth, but it never lessens the tension. I pretty much drove that man crazy and he even told me that I wasn't allowed on business trips any more. If you think being on a plane drives me crazy, you should see me in a car.

I don't like the smell of airports. Plane bathrooms freak me out. I hate security, check in and watching for my bags anxiously as they hopefully come around the baggage claim belt. I hate the little carts you put your bag on. I don't like plane snacks or food.

I'd rather clean porta potties than be a flight attendant. But, then that's a personal choice, right? We all can't be Picasso. Or Magellan.

Yikes, reading this I scare myself. If you are reading, dear husband, I'm sorry. You are probably out looking for my replacement right now.