My car’s name is George and I love him.

I’m home, back to unseasonably warm, humid and windy weather. And you know what that means!

Turbulence. Lots of turbulence.

I’ve been on solid ground for about an hour and a half now and still feel like I could hurl at any moment. Welcome home!

The best part of the trip was coming home to Foxie Doxie. Along with his usual snorts of happiness, I was also greeted with high-pitched chirps. It made me feel like the Beatles, or at least the Backstreet Boys.

Now that I’ve returned from this Corporate Behemoth-hosted travel adventure, it would be easy to act all, “Oh, yeah, I travel for work. Whatever.” And Marsha even left a comment stating that if I can fly and not lose my shit, so can she.

But the honest-to-Oprah truth?

This trip caused me Anxiety. It all went fine and with the exception of wanting to puke my brains on out the flight home, it was great. But leading up to the trip, I experienced anxiety that really surprised me.

I was nervous about the rental car. I was nervous about parking the rental car. I was worried about my presentation. I was nervous about schlepping all of my crap. I was so filled with anxiety before I ever even left that I twinged my back and the pain made me nauseous. My chiropractor said my sympathetic nervous system was a mess. Evidently, that’s chiropractorspeak for “You are totally stressed out.”

I think that in light of recent pain and losses and quality couch time, it’s extra stressful to get out of my comfort zone. It’s scary.

But here’s the deal: for once, I acknowledged the anxiety. And I just went with it. I became one of Those People who medicate before getting on a plane. And you know what? It was all fine.

It was even fine this afternoon when, en route to the airport, I realized I had a little extra time and made a hasty exit off the highway and directly into a Nordstrom Rack. Half an hour, one silk sweater set, a 100% cashmere wrap and $56 later, I stood in the parking lot unable to open my rental car.

The automatic open button didn’t seem to work. I figured the key needed a new battery. But the damned key wouldn’t open the lock, either. I figured I could climb into the car through the trunk, but I couldn’t get the trunk open, either. So, I stood next to the car, planning how I would call information, call the rental company, explain that they had given me a faulty key, wait for them to rectify the situation and make arrangements to change my flight. Ok. I could do this.

And then I realized that I had spent 10 minutes trying to open the rental car with the key to my car. My car at home.

There’s something nice about visiting somewhere where nobody has a clue who you are.

My Honda Accord
You love me only; your key
Not universal

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