My laundry is in the washers downstairs, and in two baskets upstairs (no time to do the usual five loads this morning).
I am dragging my feet here, putting off packing and getting ready to go. Yes, I am excited to get to see my family, but I am not excited about the drive.
Don't get me wrong, I love to drive. Give me an open road, good music on the radio, someone to talk to, and NO OTHER DRIVERS, and I'd be happy. The key words there are NO OTHER DRIVERS (in case the capitalization wasn't a strong enough hint).
30 isn't bad, nor is 20, but in between you have 17, then later 169, then 7. Two lane highways, 55 mph speed limit, ample farm equipment, etc. Plenty of opportunities to be forced to drive 35 mph for stretches on busy highways with no opportunity to legally pass. Fun. At least planting is over.
My family thinks that I am always late, based on how often I get to my parents' house, or any other destination in Manson, slightly after the time I said I'd be there. I am a person who actually prefers to be either early or precisely on time, depending on the politeness the situation requires - at work, I prefer my appointments to be on time rather than early or late. More efficient that way.
However, traffic usually throws a delay at me when I travel home. It's either the train on 17, or farm equipment, or a detour around an accident that has us going miles out of our way. Or foot dragging. Or someone monopolizing the laundry room, right after I discovered that the clothes I want to wear are not in my closet, but were overlooked when I stayed up until 11 doing laundry the night before.
Anyway, I think I've wasted enough time on this post. Time to get back to the laundry. I am ready for a peaceful weekend...