I’m trying to pack, trying to pull myself together for the road. I suffer from separation anxiety, and the further I’m going, the longer I’ll be gone, the greater the angst. My dog isn’t helping. She went into the back room where I’d set out my suitcases, sniffed them, then went back to the main bedroom where she has curled her big body into a tiny melancholy ball.
I remember when flying was exciting for all the good reasons. When I first moved to Chicago, I had a calico cat who traveled with me. In those halcyon days, we didn’t have security systems, and we didn’t have to strip naked, and put our clothes in bins where dirty shoes and diapers recently resided. My cat was so mellow she used to wrap herself around my neck, like a muffler, and I’d carry her carrier with my suitcase to the gate. Any number of times, the flight attendants would be so charmed that they’d take her into first class with them and feed her on shrimps and caviar while I sat in steerage–but in those days, steerage included a lovely little meal, nutritionally balanced.
For this trip, which includes 14 days in the UK and four in Crimea, visiting my intrepid cousin Barb who’s in the Peace Corps, I have bought a set of frilly pink undies in case we have to strip that deep.
Once I’m on the road, I know all will be well, but until then–insomnia and angst reign! Excelsior. More anon.