I’m shortly to head out the door for a lengthy and rather frenetic trip to the Middle East and Europe. (For those thinking of robbing my house: It won’t be empty. It will even be hosting an undisclosed number of dogs. Note the plural.)
This is the time — after very little sleep, trying desperately to tie up loose ends on a host of articles and projects — when I wonder “Why on earth do I do this?”
It happens every time.
I know, though, that things will be better once I’m actually there. (They’ll be worse during the flight. I hate flying. If I weren’t always in Peasant Class, located in the Sardine Cabin, it would be different. But when they say, as they invariably do, “We hope you’ve enjoyed flying with us,” I always want to scream “No! I haven’t! Let me off!” But this too shall pass.)
However, in the meantime, it’s reassuring to know that some of my critics will be launching multiple threads on various message boards to rehash, for the ten thousandth time, how horrible I am.
How can I be so sure that they’ll be doing this? Because they’ve done it for years. I can be gone for a month or two, even utterly incommunicado, and the pace scarcely slackens.
There’s comfort in this: Constancy amid change.