Among my many psychological conditions, one minor one I've always been susceptible to is something my family calls "the pre-road downs". The pre-roads are a period of depression and annoyance that precede a vacation or any other event requiring non-minor travel, during which the sufferer debates the wisdom of taking the trip and regrets ever scheduling it.
You could be embarking on the most fun trip to the coolest place in the world for a jaunt to which you've been looking forward for weeks -- Tahiti, Aspen, Aruba, etc. And yet about 48-72 hours before you leave, you wonder what the hell you were thinking. There's still so much shit to do, you haven't packed, you forgot to stop the paper delivery, things are going to go wrong with work, airplane travel is a hassle.....
The pre-roads are much worse for me when I'm traveling alone. If Trish and the kids are in tow, or at least are meeting me at my destination, my bout is usually very minor. But for solo trips, they can be maddening. Five years ago on my trip from Chicago to LA to watch the Fighting Irish take on the Bruins in hoops, I almost decided not to board the plane. Common sense prevailed, of course, but that's how severe a case can be when I'm mobile without la familia.
They're also enhanced when the trip involves air travel. I am a confirmed aerophobe who does not see the wisdom of catapulting oneself though the air in a pressurized metal sausage casing at upwards of 500 miles per hour, and can't help but question why just because it's the pilot's time to die it has to be mine too. It wasn't always this way, but after a hellacious flight from Chicago to Dallas to attend the 1988 Cotton Bowl, I've been a "nervous flyer" ever since.
Since achieving my majority, I've endured these kinds of trips by using specialized medicinal herbs and liquids, colloquially referred to as "gin and tonics". But over the last couple months, encompassing a family trip home from San Diego and a business trip to Charlotte, I resolved to eschew the firewater and attack the evils of travel like a man ... a resolve that was sorely tested on the flight home from Charlotte during which we flew through two thunderstorms.
That's not going to work this time, though. I stand on the cusp of my guys' weekend in Vegas with about a dozen Southwest Airlines drink tickets that will be expiring at the end of the year. When Devaney, Sampson and I get to the airport, there likely will be debate as to which of us is sober enough to drive to the Mirage -- a debate I likely will win since I'll be able to point out that I wasn't the one who rented the car. And going to Vegas with these guys without tying a couple on beforehand is like running a marathon without stretching ... or training.
Yes, I will get a buzz going at 35k feet for the better part of four hours. I do it for America and in the interest of not becoming dead at some point this weekend. If there's wifi on the flight, perhaps you can be witness to the slow devolution. Until then, true believers, it's Miller time.
