Putting out Fires

It is 8:25 on a Saturday night, and by this time tomorrow I will be an hour into my non-stop flight to London.  What am I doing 23 hours from takeoff?  Procrastinating.  Not only have I not packed a single thing, I haven’t even made a list of what to pack, much less done laundry so I’d actually have clothing to pack.

I love to travel.  I love Europe.  I love the excitment of waiting to get on to a plane to go somewhere exciting.  If I’m with someone.  As this is a purely business trip, I am dreading the 10+ hour flight and actually being in a country where I can’t just plug in my hairdryer without it becoming an ordeal.  I know from experience that two days into the trip I’ll be fighting the urge to call up my husband super long distance crying because I’m so homesick. 

I am a 26 year-old professional with a job important enough to be sent halfway around the world.  I can do this.  Can’t I? 

Oh well.  I’ll just concentrate on the Business Class comfort I’m about to enjoy and the fact that I am out of my hellish work environment for a week.  At the very least I’ll be drinking Guiness as it was meant to be brewed in about 48 hours time.  Mmmmm.  Well, come to think of it, if there’s good beer involved, it can’t be that bad.  Right.

Cheers!

I’ve never been one for sticking things on my car.  I don’t care for people to know that I’m a ‘bitch’, a ‘blonde’ (both of which can be true at times), or that my horn is broken and you should look for my finger.  I have only had one sticker on my car, representing the University that I loved.  That’s it.  Nothing professing my political beliefs, or my religious convictions.  Nothing funny or clever.

Until 3 days ago.  My husband put, as a surprise, a new sticker on my back window.  I cannot believe the pride I feel every time I look in the rearview mirror.  I couldn’t be more proud.

Although it does mean I’ll probably get pulled over more now.  :-)