Leave it to me to make a mountain out of a molehill. I may be
free of guilt trips and voyages to “regret-ville” but I certainly haven’t
conquered my anxiety when it comes to stepping outside my comfort zone and away
from my neck of the woods.
I had
best find a way to rest my apprehension. My trip to Wales is but 14 days away
and there’ll be no turning back once I’m in an aircraft 35,000 ft over the
North Atlantic Ocean.
But like
I said, leave it to me to make a mountain out of a molehill.
All I
had to do was get in my car and drive to Thunder Bay this past weekend to visit
my sister-in-law. I planned the trip about a month ago and yet, as the days to
“take-off” crept closer I could be heard having conversations with myself about
all the reasons why I couldn’t possibly go.
And it’s
not like I haven’t done a Thunder Bay run and other trips by myself before
this, but there have been none since Jon died and yet I didn’t expect the doing
would be such a mountain to climb.
If I
could compare this hump in my road map to anything I would liken it to being on
a boat cruising out to the lake to fish.
I expect
to coast along for a while with minimal effort when suddenly the boat motor
quits and the trolling motor goes on strike. I coax the motors, talk to them,
and reason with them and still I get nowhere. Eventually I have to paddle my
big boat if I want to get where I’m going—never mind try to paddle AND fish at
the same time.
That’s
what my trip to Thunder Bay looked like late last week. My motor quit and my
trolling motor folded its arms and gave me the flat stare of a 16-year old
teenager who I just asked to take out the garbage.
I
hotwired my trolling motor going over the Causeway and yes! got on the road but
it kept failing and eventually I had to resort to paddling and paddling down
the entire highway.
I hadn’t
realized what a comfort zone this little town and my little world had been for
the last three months—where everything was predictable and I always was safe at
home.
But you
know me. I took the wheel and made it from Point “A” to “B” thus deciding that
I would use the trip as a trial run for my clueless green thumb world
traveler-self who need a fast learning curve on how to pack for nine days in
May.
I knew
this for sure because I was hauling three-quarters of my clothes closet and 16
pairs of underwear for a day and half trip to the city.
Thankfully
there was a hydraulic dolly in the barn that bore the mammoth bag out of the
house and into the car’s trunk.
I’ve
been reading travel blogs and travel wikis and travel advice columns for all
the latest recommendations for what to pack. I challenge myself daily to pack
less and less junk (save the giant Toblerone and must-have chocolate bars in
case I get stranded on an island with Tom Hanks).
Yet in
the trial to pare down the piles of underwear et al, I will not give up my
compression stockings. Yes folks, compression stockings.
I may be
aging gracefully above my chicken neck, but below the knees not so elegantly.
Thus,
seated in an airplane for eight hours while my lower legs dangle helpless and
motionless as the blood tries to jump past the faulty valves in my calves,
means I have to wear therapeutic high density trouser socks made for travelers
with varicose veins. (There I said it).
And if
you think that’s a media shocker, you are very lucky you didn’t walk by my car
on Saturday in the parking lot of the home health store in Thunder Bay while I
was trying to put one of those compression socks on my foot.
Never in
my life had I such an experience. I used to think tummy control pantyhose was a
hard haul on to my body until I tried to stretch that black sock out far enough
so it would fit over my toes.
Anyone
who wondered what was happening inside my car that day would have thought I was
being devoured against my will by a 12-inch black eel, as I writhed in the
front seat.
By the
time I got all five toe digits kidnapped in the compression sock and pulled and
stretched the rest of it up my leg, a big fat blue bulging vessel had popped
out between my eyes.
Please
tell me I don’t have to buy something similar to compress my head before I
travel.
Getting
that evil sock off at night was like firing a boomerang from a slingshot in a
small room—but that’s another story.
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