I love the idea of travel. I love reading about far-off places and dreaming myself there. And I have travelled quite a bit -- and loved doing it. See, once I'm in the plane, I'm fine. I take a book and my knitting and look out the window chewing contently on my teeny bag of complementary pretzels.
It's the week before my trip that gives me the jitters. I start to regret ever agreeing to go, in spite of my initial enthusiasm. I walk around my house touching my belongings as if I'll never see them again. Instead of thinkng "Yippee! In a week I'll be in Scotland!" I find myself saying to myself, "Just three weeks and I'll be back in my own bed."
What the hell is wrong with me?
Other friends have told me that they feel the same way before they travel. I hope so. I'd hate to think that it's a phenomenon unique to me.
However, it causes me a lot of uselessly annoying anxiety that I would like to avoid. Gutting out the upcoming three days before I actually leave home will be difficult. At least, by the time I get on the airplane, exhausted, dragging my little carryon behind me, I might be able to get some sleep - something I never seem able to do on a transatlantic flight.
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