Stir-crazy

My parents are on a cruise in Alaska, my sister is traveling in Russia, my brother is preaching in Mexico, my other siblings are enjoying the California sun. What am I doing here, tied down, in the often-dreary confines of northern Utah?

I have the travel bug, the itch. I want to get in my car and drive, all night and all day, sleep at rest stops, make small talk with small-town gas station workers. I want to abadon my car in a parking lot, find an airport, get on a plane, fly. I want to catch the bus from the airport to some distant stop, get off, walk unknown neighborhoods. I want to find a run-down motel, book a room for a week, and flirt every day with the Hispanic maid. She can be pretty or plain, I won't be picky. I want to get out of this house.

Maybe it's just me feeling sick. When you stay home all day, without any particular purpose other than to be sick, the walls can get to you. It's not that I stayed in bed the whole time. I worked on invitations for a dinner party, re-strung my guitar, watched Battlestar Galactica reruns, shopped online for sheet music, ate cold pizza, threw-up, and read myself unconcious. But it was too much time indoors, alone in this house.

I'm going to work tomorrow. I plan on feeling up to it. Then I'm going to seriously look into taking a trip. A long trip. Somewhere with pygmies or Eskimos or gigantic insects. I'm not picky. Just far away, out of this state, out of this house.