My travel phobia is pretty normal–at least that’s what I tell myself. The day before travel, I become OCD, organizing my piles, washing my hands, making lists, and packing more than I need. The crane to lift me off the couch must be operational around 11am to launch me out the door. Sam needs to pry my hands from the door frame and carry me out of the apartment building. En route to the airport, he doesn’t speak to me because I’m going through my mantras: I’m 45, for goodness sakes. Why the drama? I must do things differently. Even if I die in a plane crash, maybe I’ll pass out before I feel it. Oh wait, this isn’t a mantra. I am a confident woman. If I can fly to Paris, I can do this. It’s not even an issue. I am a serene woman.
Because I live with someone who loves to travel, I need to travel. It’s not that I don’t love to see people. Getting there fills me with all kinds of anxiety. So here I go, wanting to see relatives and hug them, and also praying for no plunging into the Hudson river thing. If this were for work or book related, I’d be on the plane with fewer shrieks of agony. Pray for me.