Tomorrow I have to get to the airport to catch a plane. No big thing, I know. But.
For the last three years getting myself to the airport has not been my “job”; that’s something my husband dealt with. Whatever city we were in, whatever time the plane left–all I had to do was ask him, “by what time do we have to leave?” and then have myself and my bags ready to load in the car by that time.
Sometimes we took taxi, sometimes we drove ourselves, but whatever it was, I didn’t have to do anything beyond showing up.
I abhor dealing with this kind of stuff. I just do. And I am sitting here a mere ten hours before my plane is slated to depart and I still have not decided how exactly I am getting to the airport. wtf?
My husband also always took care of most other things “transportation”–calculating the route from our house to a party, remembering where we’d parked the car, unloading the car after a road trip, keeping tabs on airport checkins and rental cars.
It is not that I am all “girly” about automobiles and such. I actually LIKE cars and engines and mechanical things.
I also quite like maps and planning and organizing.
But this natural “division of labor” that we evolved into really suited me. And now that he’s left, I am stuck with these tasks.
And I do not like it.