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Ode to my aching everything
Confession: I hate traveling.
Oh, when I was little, I dreamt of glamorous travel, just like every eight year old who watches too many sitcoms. My great-aunts had all sorts of stories about pre-war Europe. As a teen, I entertained fantasies about going to the west coast and seeing the sights and other nonsense. One is supposed to loooooove to travel, see the sights, meet new people, expand one's horizons, partake in culture, etc. etc.
The truth is that I abhor it dreadfully.
Oh, I've had cocktails in the cafe car (or, last night, squashed in a row of other absurdly large individuals; we joked they lumped us all together by height), but somehow, it's never worth it. Perhaps because I largely travel out of obligation: enduring the torture of Getting There might be somehow worth it if my destination were a sunny beach (with more cocktails) but somehow, I doubt it. (After all, for the money, I can buy rather a lot of vodka and cranberry juice and drink it in my own little house.) Darlings, I love you, but the internet means I never have to actually visit anyone -- we can talk here, no?
And I have a horrid memory anyway, so I don't remember any of those supposedly life-formulating "experiences" travel is supposed to bring. I do enjoy daytrips into the city -- I love D.C. -- and a few fabulous Manhattan trips might be nice when I'm a good deal richer. Whitby, someday, perhaps. But the notion of "crashing" anywhere seems putrid. I daresay I'd rather be boiled alive in my own juices than backpack through Europe. I intend to never, ever see Australia.
How nice it is, my own bed. I'm sitting here scrolling through old Martha Stewart archives, thinking of how lovely I can make my tiny little house. How nice to be home... where my bottles of vodka are full sized.
Oh, when I was little, I dreamt of glamorous travel, just like every eight year old who watches too many sitcoms. My great-aunts had all sorts of stories about pre-war Europe. As a teen, I entertained fantasies about going to the west coast and seeing the sights and other nonsense. One is supposed to loooooove to travel, see the sights, meet new people, expand one's horizons, partake in culture, etc. etc.
The truth is that I abhor it dreadfully.
Oh, I've had cocktails in the cafe car (or, last night, squashed in a row of other absurdly large individuals; we joked they lumped us all together by height), but somehow, it's never worth it. Perhaps because I largely travel out of obligation: enduring the torture of Getting There might be somehow worth it if my destination were a sunny beach (with more cocktails) but somehow, I doubt it. (After all, for the money, I can buy rather a lot of vodka and cranberry juice and drink it in my own little house.) Darlings, I love you, but the internet means I never have to actually visit anyone -- we can talk here, no?
And I have a horrid memory anyway, so I don't remember any of those supposedly life-formulating "experiences" travel is supposed to bring. I do enjoy daytrips into the city -- I love D.C. -- and a few fabulous Manhattan trips might be nice when I'm a good deal richer. Whitby, someday, perhaps. But the notion of "crashing" anywhere seems putrid. I daresay I'd rather be boiled alive in my own juices than backpack through Europe. I intend to never, ever see Australia.
How nice it is, my own bed. I'm sitting here scrolling through old Martha Stewart archives, thinking of how lovely I can make my tiny little house. How nice to be home... where my bottles of vodka are full sized.
no subject
I do tend to still overdo it a bit and wreck myself in the interest of seeing distant shores, but travel is one of the things that I love to do most, and I'm willing to save up my spoons and spend them recklessly and with cheerful abandon if it means getting to see my dear ones :)
But, yeah -- sadly, I doubt I'll ever get to see Australia or Africa, or ever scuba-dive again, or explore any more ruins in Mexico (I had a wonderful brief trip in 2001 which I cherish the memories from!) . . . so ADVENTURE travel may be beyond my reach . . . but fairly comfortable FRIENDLY travel, where I spend a lot of time on English couches or Whitby beaches or California lounge chairs, is still worth doing in my book ^__^
-- A <3
P.S. I'm also kind of fond of Texas beds *grins & runs away*
no subject
Come to think of it, even as a child... the only vacation I thought was "fun" was when my mother and I went to New York for the weekend, not the endless awful amusement parks.
See, I kind of wonder if road tripping -- in a comfortable car, with stuff -- wouldn't be less strenuous than flying. It's twice as long (in most instances, around here) but you control the pace... my family swears it'd be worse for the fibro, but I honestly much prefer being in control, not being obligated to be HERE! NOW! OKAY GO HERE! Hmmmmmmmmmmm.