PhotoCredit: BigJetPlane
I miss travel. I know, cry me a river. It’s a confession that smacks of privilege. Someone book me on the Oprah show stat. I sure do hope you got that joke, I so just cracked myself up.
What I actually miss isn’t the travel bit. Getting to my destination is usually a harried cocktail of meetings, too many dinners, frantic catch-ups, fractured sleep and probably too much wine. I don't miss any of that. Other than the seeing-people part.
What I miss is the ritual. I miss packing my bag, choosing my clothes for 10 days, downloading a few shows and playlists and getting hyper-organized for the ensuing mayhem. I miss the drive to the airport where I completely relax in the satisfaction of on-top-of-it-ness.
The drive across LA is like a mini-portal between my two worlds. No one can find me, or so it feels. As I shift from LA-Claudia to NZ-Claudia, I disappear from view for 24 hours. I walk through the airport and hide in a corner of the lounge. I get on the plane and bask in the 12 hours I have all to myself. Sheer Bliss. Accountable to no one.
That’s what I miss the most. My plane-time. I catch up, read what I want, watch what I want, don’t have to think about anything.
I decided a couple of weeks ago that I was going to gift this back to myself. Every six weeks I plan to disappear. Poof, she’s gone. I did it last week and it was a liberation. I blocked my calendar for 24 hours, organized my food for the day, turned all my devices to DoNotDisturb and took a ride in an imaginary jet plane.
It was liberating. Please try it. Every six weeks, give yourself a break. I’m calling it an Inspire Day. Catch up on all those articles you haven’t found time to read, listen to a few podcasts, nap at unconventional times, and get your head (and heart) out of the rinse and repeat of the zoom-fatigue-ladden world we wandered into over the last 12 months.
Plane Time. DO IT.