I love to travel. Before the pandemic, I traveled a lot, especially considering I wasn't doing any of it for a profession. Seeing new cities, trying new food, learning new histories and experiencing new cultures -- all of it is just a joy. So many of our family experiences have been based in travel, and the wonders of what we have seen and done is something we uniquely share between us.
But I absolutely hate packing. I have to make decisions about what I need days in advance, and I inevitably end up reopening my suitcase multiple times to add something "just in case." The day before I travel, I do anything to avoid packing - I check and recheck email; I do laundry; I remember and execute on little to-do items that really could wait. And finally, in the evening, I head to the dreaded task.
What's really sad is that when I finally get to packing, it's never as bad as I think it will be. But I dread it the same the next time around. You would think I could figure out why, but it mystifies.
Time to go pack....
