I am an anxious traveler. The last time I left the country, I spent the night before my flight wide eyed in bed and picturing the distance between Utah and Argentina – my destination – and feeling like I was sliding off the earth. As if gravity had given up on me and loosed me into space.
I am about to embark on another international adventure. I’m feeling anxious but, for some reason, that anxiety is manifesting as a panic I have never experienced before. This is what it is saying to me:
“I’m going to France. What the heck am I going to wear?!”
This makes no sense. A.) I am not going to Paris, I am going to Provence. B.) Since when do I care about what I look like? My fashion instincts always gear me toward an average look. Not great. Not bad. All I want: not to be noticed.
I’m traveling with a friend who does care about dress, however. I think that’s part of it. I think I also want to look cute in the travel pics. But mostly I don’t want to look like a schlub next to my friend.
We had a chat about this the other day. Here is a bit of it.