On having packed enough
I'm writing this from the airport, because I'm going to Richmond.
I'm writing this from the airport at 9pm (PST -- sorry for the late email, east coast friends) because I spent all day packing.
Okay, that's a lie. I spent the vast majority of the day not packing -- some of that time not packing was spent *actively procrastinating* the act of packing, but most of it wasn't. Most of it was spent with the usual Sunday activities: vacuuming, drinking coffee, bouldering, PlayStation.
I used to spend entire *days* embroiled in the process of packing: deciding what shoes would best handle the variety of situations I would find myself embroiled in (even though I would invariably end up only wearing sandals and running shoes); what books I wanted to read on the plane, what games I wanted to download.
I used to treat the act of travel itself as an experience to be cherished: I loved sitting in trains or minivans or airplanes for hours, barreling my way through a book or a game. It was an innately wonderful experience, in the literal sense of the word 'wonderful'. I was full of wonder. It was novel; it was fun.
Right now, there is less enthusiasm. I'm taking a red-eye, breaking my promise to myself to never take red-eyes, because sometimes you can't reason yourself out of saving four hours in DFW and $300 at the meager cost of a night's sleep. I'll watch an episode of *The Leftovers* then fall asleep on the plane; I'll pass time during my layover going through emails and reading *The Idiot* (or, more likely, falling asleep while trying to read *The Idiot*.)
Don't get me wrong -- I am *thrilled* to go to Richmond. I am excited to see my parents and my friends and my old neighborhood. I am excited to see I-64 and Main Street Station. I am excited for good barbecue and my mother's Caesar salad, which is perfect. I am excited to wake up in the morning in a bed that is warmth itself, to walk down the stairs that have creaks and patterns that I've known my entire life. I am excited to remember playing with my dog, and to remember studying for the SATs, and to remember things that made me who I am. I am excited to be home, like *home* home.
But I am no longer excited to fly, which worries me a little. Flying is too chore-like now: there is no more fondness in my heart for moving walkways or complimentary sodas or baggage claim. If I could teleport to Richmond, I would.
(Trains, though? I am still excited to take a train.)
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Happy Sunday. I hope you never forget your toiletries.
I'm writing this from the airport at 9pm (PST -- sorry for the late email, east coast friends) because I spent all day packing.
Okay, that's a lie. I spent the vast majority of the day not packing -- some of that time not packing was spent *actively procrastinating* the act of packing, but most of it wasn't. Most of it was spent with the usual Sunday activities: vacuuming, drinking coffee, bouldering, PlayStation.
I used to spend entire *days* embroiled in the process of packing: deciding what shoes would best handle the variety of situations I would find myself embroiled in (even though I would invariably end up only wearing sandals and running shoes); what books I wanted to read on the plane, what games I wanted to download.
I used to treat the act of travel itself as an experience to be cherished: I loved sitting in trains or minivans or airplanes for hours, barreling my way through a book or a game. It was an innately wonderful experience, in the literal sense of the word 'wonderful'. I was full of wonder. It was novel; it was fun.
Right now, there is less enthusiasm. I'm taking a red-eye, breaking my promise to myself to never take red-eyes, because sometimes you can't reason yourself out of saving four hours in DFW and $300 at the meager cost of a night's sleep. I'll watch an episode of *The Leftovers* then fall asleep on the plane; I'll pass time during my layover going through emails and reading *The Idiot* (or, more likely, falling asleep while trying to read *The Idiot*.)
Don't get me wrong -- I am *thrilled* to go to Richmond. I am excited to see my parents and my friends and my old neighborhood. I am excited to see I-64 and Main Street Station. I am excited for good barbecue and my mother's Caesar salad, which is perfect. I am excited to wake up in the morning in a bed that is warmth itself, to walk down the stairs that have creaks and patterns that I've known my entire life. I am excited to remember playing with my dog, and to remember studying for the SATs, and to remember things that made me who I am. I am excited to be home, like *home* home.
But I am no longer excited to fly, which worries me a little. Flying is too chore-like now: there is no more fondness in my heart for moving walkways or complimentary sodas or baggage claim. If I could teleport to Richmond, I would.
(Trains, though? I am still excited to take a train.)
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Happy Sunday. I hope you never forget your toiletries.