I mean, truthfully here, I’m beginning to really hate traveling. It’s not the visiting awesome places that sucks, of course, but the actual act of traveling itself. I am one thousand percent done with awful plane rides, jet lag, and planning to get everything done but actually getting nothing done.
You see, I had a plan.
I was going to finish two reading books and actually manage to write another 5,000 words for the one I’m actually writing myself. Did I get any of that done? Nope!
Instead I had the worst sleep of my life on the plane as my boyfriend excitedly tried to wake me up every 20 minutes to point out something he thought was amazing from the plane window–which, admittedly, yes it was but it’s not as though I’ve never flown before–therefore thoroughly destroying any chance I had of feeling rested.
Then there was the rush at the connecting airport to ensure we got on the other plane, the scramble for food and a bathroom, and a subsequent flight that distracted me most thoroughly with a film I’d wanted to see. This avoidance of writing was also partially influenced by the fact that the man sitting next to me was huge and my maneuverability ratio was zilch. We really need to build bigger plane seats cause his giant muscle arms were driving me nuts. With seats so close, it can be almost impossible to maneuver without bumping into the person next to you.
So, I suppose I always somehow have this idea that I’ll have all this time to get things done while on a plane and somehow I never actually do. And naturally, when visiting people that takes up a lot of time, even though I have work off. As it stands, I’m beginning to realize I should probably not expect much of myself when on a plane anymore.