Travel is one of those things that is not particularly ingrained in my DNA. I want to like to travel but it is very difficult. I feel like people that were exposed to travel and adventure at an early age seem to take to it in a way similar to an addiction. I was not exposed, and as much as I try to get addicted to the sexy drug of far-off places and experiences, it always seems to stress me out more than anything.
For starters, I do not like to drive. After a few decades of driving in Atlanta, I have developed serious anxiety behind the wheel. All the near misses on the interstate, all of the sudden stops, all of the firemen holding up sheets around a vehicle because of something terrible happened, has made me most comfortable in a stationary position.
I do not care to fly, although I prefer it to driving. The slightest bump of turbulence has me clutching the armrest so hard I swear I have dented the metal. I’m a large human. I’m not wealthy or important enough to fly business class, so flying, in most cases, has me holding an awkward yoga pose for the length of the journey. Or, if I’m lucky enough to get an aisle seat, I do not believe there has ever been a time a flight attendant didn’t nearly amputate my leg with the drink cart. I also tripped an elderly woman on her way to the bathroom once, so there’s that.
The absolute worst part of traveling these days is the preparation. We have this thing in my house where we make sure the house is clean before we leave. We do this for two reasons. Usually, we have someone come over to feed this fish and check on the plants and we don’t want them to think we’re slobs. The other reason is that in case we don’t come back, we don’t want whoever has to settle our estate to see the way we really live.
I am a slob and I am lazy and I really do not care about this cleaning thing, but my wife does, and this is one of those non-negotiable things, that I have learned not to question because I am not going to win. I should not question these things. Ever. Period. That doesn’t mean I can’t still passive-aggressively challenge them through my writing.
The conundrum with this cleaning is that the minute we get back from a trip we take all the luggage out of the car and immediately dump it right at the entrance. There has never been a time where this did not happen because after traveling with a kid, no matter the distance, we are always exhausted when we get home. Even getting the suitcases back in the house is a struggle so monumental it takes every shred of willpower in my being. Then, once these parcels cross that threshold that’s it. That is where they sit. That is where they stay.
In a matter of a few minutes the clean house that we left, the clean house that wasn’t clean until we got all the suitcases in the car, then becomes chaos once more. All of that work is erased. And for what? So that people can come in the house when we’re not there and think we are not barbarians? Fair enough. Or is it so that our fish can enjoy staring out into a clean house while we are away? I really don’t think he cares.
I really should not question these things. I know this. The fact is that the house needs to be clean should something horrible happen while we are away. Part of me can’t help but think about what would happen should I have a sudden stroke contemplating this absurdity the minute we get back from a trip. Will the first responders think we are barbarians as they retrieve me from a pile of suitcases or will they shake their heads in solemn understanding? I think I already know the answer. I should not question these things. Ever. Period.