Lost in transit

I realized on holiday that I’m horrible while in transit. As a natural-born extreme worrier, I get all worked up about the long list of things that could go wrong and get snippy with PJ. The usual approach is as follows:

Worry about sleeping through the alarm clock.
Worry about having packed too little.
Attempt to lift suitcase – worry about having packed too much.
Worry about not having passport (hah!)/tickets/contact lenses/comb.
Worry about the taxi not turning up.
Worry about the taxi getting stuck in traffic en route to the airport and missing check-in/flight.
Worry about having left the heating on/not put the rubbish out.
Worry about the plane crashing.
Etc.

I also loathe having to lug a suitcase and, more specifically, my laptop around. The damn thing weighs a ton, and gets heavier as the day goes on. This explains my hatred of Heathrow, an airport that makes you walk for miles to get anywhere, and my love of Norwich – it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump from the plane to the car. My shoulder is still feeling out of sorts after Tuesday’s marathon schlep between terminals.

However, after 4 years of hating flying, I’ve got over my fear of that once I’m actually on the plane. And I don’t mind the actual travel itself, be it by plane, train, or automobile – largely due to having a very high boredom threshold (seriously, I can play the same video game for 6 months without getting bored). But all the stuff leading up to the travel just renders me a little stress bunny – which is strange, given that I’m normally such a calm, Zen-like Dumpling. My apologies to all those who find themselves copping the flack, particularly PJ: I’d love to say that it won’t happen again, but we both know that it will.