...the little things set me off. Like having to pay $15 dollars to check a back at Continental. I wont even balk at $5 for a cup of coffee. But to check my bag? This is bad, this is how I know the economy is so bad. Can't they just fold it into the price of the ticket and pretend? Never in my life, in all twenty plus years, has anyone had to pay for one measly bag, under 50 lbs.
Then of course my anger about the bag becomes anger about the fact that I can't fit into my jeans. And my NY staple of skirts and boots just won't fly in Boulder--or across the US (and I mean this literally) not for less than $15 dollars that is.
Damn jeans. Damn creams that are too large to put in a carry on bag. This is what happens--anger becomes the river that lubricates my stream of conscience and all the sudden the sky is falling.
Take a deep breath. In. Out.
This too shall pass. It's just been triggered by my post traumatic stress disorder that I contracted after eighteen years of traveling with my father, what a nightmare--that's a whole 'nother post.
I'm off to pack the tiniest little carry on you've ever seen, with more stuff than you've ever seen. Mary Poppins magic here I come...