What’s not to love? Those are great selling points. HBO has groundbreaking programs, a love me some one serving cereal packages and the internet is like blood to me. But none of that softens the spike I feel in my anxiety level upon entering a hotel.
I’m not sure exactly what made me so hotel-phobic. I used to love staying in them. When I was a middle schooler, my dad, stepmom and stepsister stayed in a new room almost every night for two summers during our road trips across the country. It was an adventure. We visited the most awe-inspiring places and I would often send home/collect postcards of the hotel we stayed at along with the beautiful likes of Yosemite, Yellowstone and Redwood National Parks. I was intrigued by the different places we stayed, not disgusted like I am now.
Now, I can’t relax in them at all. I loathe using the towels, sleeping in the beds, using any part of the bathroom and, of course, walking on the carpet. I even cringe at putting my face directly on the pillowcase. (How many dirty heads have been on that thing?!)
This latest hotel we stayed at wasn’t even so bad but I still struggled. I just don’t want my freaky fears to rub off on the kids. (I already ruined them when it comes to bugs.) So far, I think I’ve hidden my revulsion fairly well around them. Nate seemed to love his hotel stay.
He jumped from bed to bed, was pleasantly surprised when he learned they let us use their towels, wanted to cook popcorn in the mini-microwave, felt like king of the world standing on furniture to reach the sink and thoroughly enjoyed his breakfast of bagel, an apple and some waffle.
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I wish some of his carefree and happy hotel handling would change my attitude. I’m pretty sure the free HBO won’t do it because I still have to touch the remote to watch it. (Shiver.)
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