Now that I’ve gone and decided that I’m taking a trip back to Louisiana this weekend, I’m stressed out.
Unlike, well, just about any trip I can ever remember taking, though, it’s not the stress of the unknown, the stress of uncertainty; I’ve written about that before, and it’s definitely a huge problem for me, but no. This is the stress of already wanting to be there. To set out as early as possible tomorrow morning, not waiting until Saturday, and booking it hard back home.
That’s the wrong thing to do; for one, it puts me in Friday traffic in Atlanta, and I’m pretty sure I’d rather punch myself in the face repeatedly than deal with that utter mess. And my mail hold doesn’t start until Saturday, and I still need to pack, and and and… but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m antsy.
As irritating as this is, it’s actually a really good thing. I literally can’t remember ever being rarin’ to go on a trip. Even the one that took me here to North Carolina, five-and-some years ago, was mostly filled with apprehension; I thought that getting the job was some sort of huge mistake on the company’s part, and that I’d be found out as a fraud immediately, and have to return hat in hand to LSU in six months’ time. (Turns out it took them five years or so to figure that out.) And every trip since, whether it was for business (usually) or for personal reasons (rarely), made me stress out about all the ways it could go wrong.
And there’s nothing saying that my newly-fixed-up car won’t break down on Saturday as I head across five states, to be sure. But I’m not worried about it. And that’s a new, exciting feeling.