I hate to travel.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love being other places, visiting friends and family, and seeing new sights.

I just hate the process that’s required to get there. I hate packing. I hate figuring out whether I have the right clothes for the predicted weather in my destination and whether their meteorologists are as inept as ours. I hate worrying about whether my contact solution is now against the rules. I hate having to choose just one or two books and one or two knitting projects to take with me. I hate cleaning. I hate stressing about whether the cats will have enough food or if I ought to have someone check in on them after all.

I hate having a timetable. I hate having to arrive at terminals a ridiculous amount of time early. I hate waiting in lines, particularly behind people who don’t bother to prep until they arrive up at the metal detector. I hate airport prices. I hate the delays that inevitably don’t happen until you’re already trapped in the terminal or at a layover. I hate the idea of being stuck on the plane for what seems like days and days. I hate stale-tasting airline food. I hate uncomfortable seats. I hate airplane bathrooms that smell funky and that require knowing advanced yoga in order to get in and out. I hate not being able to use my iPod when it’s unclear that it will prevent anything anywhere. I hate strange male seatmates who seem to be under the impression that it is somehow appropriate for him to sit spread-eagle and invade my personal space.

I hate sleeping in other people’s beds. I hate my odd hours affecting other people. I hate not having internet access. I hate having to remember to hide my stuff so that other people’s cats won’t be tempted to spray my bags or my clothes or my shoes.

Usually I’m fine once I get there. I just hate that in-between transition purgatory.

But I feel better having shared that. Thanks.