Anyone who knows me or has read between the lines of my posts will know that I worry about everything. Literally, everything. From your average concerns like ‘did I lock the door?’ and ‘do my hips look big in this?’ (they probably do, I’m not really sure why I continue to ask this question) to the slightly more disruptive ‘what if I get lost?’ or ‘what if it kills me?’ Essentially, that part of How To Be Single where Dakota Johnson says super dramatically I TALK MYSELF OUT OF THINGS THAT I REALLY WANT TO DO is something I relate to on a spiritual level. I just worry so much it ends up not being worth it. Until now. Because on Thursday, Teamales, I’m going to New York City aka this panic monster is going abroad. So in order to prevent myself from having another mental breakdown, I’m going to share my fears with you and hopefully we can face/laugh at them (depending on how sympathetic you are) together.
Before I begin, remember my blog-anniversary giveaway is running at the mo and you can enter to win a fabulously feminist bundle HERE!
Firstly, you have to conquer the airport. The dreaded Did I pack scissors in my case? followed by Why is airport security looking at me like I did? their judgy faces rather staring at you as if you’ve started a corkscrew business from your hand luggage and intend to sell them to fellow passengers or, if they do find a prohibited item that’s accidentally slipped through the post-packing check, they do this RADA worthy sigh as they discard it into the graveyard of craft scissors and liquids over 100ml. Although does lip balm count as a liquid? Does it have to go in one of those see through bags like other cosmetics or is it fine in my pocket? How many mls is 100ml? Like, obviously it’s 100 but what’s that in visual terms? Plus, I never know if that’s a collective 100ml or each single item can be 100ml in which case surely if you had something over 100ml you could simply pour it into other bottles to distribute the weight? And what’s worse is that the struggle isn’t over there because once you’ve put your bags through the scanners, you have to do the same walk of shame through a full body scanner. What if they make me take my shoes off? What if my bra goes off and I have to take that off? PLEASE do not put me through the awkward getting-touched-up-by-a-stranger-for-reasons-which-claim-to-be-a-purely-safety-based-‘hand-search’-however-feels-like-a-huge-invasion-of-my-privacy. That pat a cake rhyme gets a whole new meaning when you go abroad.
Boarding the plane is just as bad. What if they don’t recognise me from my passport (which actually, they shouldn’t because I look nothing like that anymore, 2012 was not a good year and the fact I’m not being questioned by border control about my identify is arguably rather offensive)? Are all my documents still valid? What if they get stolen between here and the return trip? What if they get stolen between here and the plane? What if we have to get a bus to the plane? I don’t know if this is still a thing but when little Jess flew to Spain, in order to get to your flight you’d have to ride a stuffy, over-crowded little shuttle bus which stank of petrol and usually broke down halfway across the runway. Although the runway or the plane- I can’t decide which is worse. Sat in your seat with a headrest stained from the people before thinking Will I catch nits from this? If this makes my skin break out then I’ll have to endure 6 hours in the sky with no access to my skincare routine aka holiday photos ft. impressive acne. Or worse, what if I lose circulation in my legs from sitting still for this long and then I can never get off the plane? What if I want to watch a film but my headphones are broken? I can’t even bear to look at the other passengers because one of them probably looks shifty and JESUS DO NOT OPEN THE WINDOW. Oh God what if someone opens the window?
At this point it’s like Jess, the worst is over. Hopefully your plane didn’t crash (although if it does, at least I’ve already scheduled my post for next week) and now you can enjoy your holiday. But what if I get squished by a yellow taxi? What if my suitcase never came round on the baggage carousel and so I have to spend the next week in these gross plane clothes- probably leggings, amiright ladies? Argh what if my leggings are see-through? What if I get to 34th street and can’t find the miracle? What if what if what if what if what if.
You’ll find out how it’s gone, when I get back…