I used to like to travel by myself for work.  I remember a time, when our 4 kids were little, that I looked forward with huge excitement to the occasional business trip, knowing that I would get to watch a movie on the hotel TV, or stay up all night reading if  I felt like it–or even take a midnight dip in the pool!

I’ve been doing a lot of traveling for work lately, and, although I still enjoy watching a movie in my hotel room, I’m pretty much over the rest of it.  I dread packing and unpacking.  I don’t like forgetting to bring toothpaste and having to go downstairs to buy some.

I don’t mind listening to good speakers or participating in helpful workshops, but I can really do without the “networking.”  I’ve never really enjoyed talking to strange people about whatever mess we can think up to talk about, but I’ve about gotten to the point where I can’t even fake it any more.  And I hate hotel breakfast buffets, full of cold cereal, fake waffles, and tasteless bagels.

Even the hotel lobbies depress me–with their aging carpets and their late-night bars full of conventioneers yukking it up and drinking too much. 
They remind me of airports, with their crowds of people walking around, passing each other, all of them unfamiliar, except that I like people-watching in airports, and it’s no fun in the lobby of a Sheraton.  There’s something about staying in a big hotel that gives me the same kind of limbo feeling I felt entering John F. Kennedy High School in the tenth grade–the new kid on the block, newly home to the States from our last tour of duty in Germany.
I’m a fish out of water.
I miss my husband.  I miss my kids.  I miss my friends. I miss my dogs.
I want to be back home, in my own bed, with my own pillow, and with my clock radio scheduled to wake me up to the sound of NPR, instead of a automated wake-up call.
I guess I’m just too damn old for this!
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