Preparation.
A call comes in. My father — always the insistent one — reminds me a third time to get my bags packing. We’re once again set to go out over the next four days, with me at the mercy of every other member of the family dragging me along. In fact, I’m supposed to be packing right now; I’ll just squeeze this post out first.
I hate going out just as much as I hate staying home. My preference on this lies solely on my mood; basically the ‘I’ll go out if I feel like it’ attitude. Yes, I don’t want to be idle, but I also don’t want to keep going on vacations every week. Going out also hurts my clothing deficit — you can only wear so much on a four-day weekend.
Traveling on the other hand is obviously stressful; unless you’re booked at a plush hotel, sleeping anywhere other than your own bed is bound to be a headache. Put this together with a tight schedule, the fact that you’re the only one who knows how to sensibly operate a camera, and a possible language barrier (when going abroad, though this can apply pretty much anywhere at least 100 kilometers from your house) and you have the outing you’ll never forget — for all the wrong reasons.
Or that’s just me. I just have the slightest feeling that this one vacation wouldn’t end too happily, and that’s just being optimistic.
