Baggage

It's really not travel I dislike. But I'm a naturally anxious person, and from the moment the house fades away in the rearview, I begin to imagine all of the calamities that could happen at home -- from the trite is-the-coffee-pot-still-on to the more realistic daymare of one of our cats getting a tail amputated by a door blown shut to the insane Rube Goldbergesque fantasies of a spilled bowl of water ballooning into a situation in which first responders bust in and then everyone will know that I didn't clear the breakfast dishes! Yeah, that's the inside of my skull. And I haven't even begun with all of the insane possibilities of hitting the road.

In my defense, when we headed out to Columbus, OH last May for our anniversary, we didn't make it to the Eden-Angola exit before the windshield wiper came loose and began flopping around. So I'm not TOTALLY nuts. I'm not.

I'm NOT.

Totally.