Traveling is hard. It am acutely aware of the fact that no one (besides my mom) is anxiously awaiting word that I’ve made it safely. Or even moderately interested in hearing of my arrival. It is the stab of disappointment, me so excited to feel that old rush of excitement and contentment, only to realize the gaping whole is there every minute of every day. When will this end? Apparently not after a year a half. Maybe never. And that’s the real shitter. Because if it’s going to feel like this forever, what’s the point? I know hundreds of people care about my safety and happiness, but all I want is to be able to call Mike and tell him that I’m standing in line to board in Salt Lake & that I’ll call him the second we land. He would stay up late to make sure I made it safely, even though I’d tell him to just go to sleep. He would think my boring stories about the lady next to me snoring in my ear was interesting. And most importantly, he would already be missing me. He would tell me to have an absolute blast & not worry about a thing. He’s got it handled. And I would tell him to sleep tight,  knowing that he had a hard time sleeping in our bed without me. And I would be ready to go have a freaking great time, but I’d already miss him too. Instead, I’ll take a deep breath & give 150% effort toward having fun. I’ll plaster a smile on my face. I’ll sit by the pool & I’ll drink yummy drinks. And I’ll post 20 pictures of all the “fun” I’m having on Facebook to convince myself and everyone else that I’m so amazingly strong that I can get through this. I’ll have cried the entire way over Colorado clear to Georgia but by then I’ll be ready to suck it up and have a great vacation. I should travel more, it’s very uplifting.