I frequently despise how spoiled I've become.
I'm the one at the helm, you understand. The one with the credit card, the bank account, the income to support booking hotels, rental cars, et cetera. (Ignore the fact that I'm going to paying through the nose for this car rental; you hit one cop car...) Moreover, I'm the one with the responsibility to do these things. I chase things down. I mind the details. I finish what I start.
The ticket to ComicCon in my inbox, blissfully paid for and giving me passage to all days. I've found the hotel, and car rental, which will land our group $200 per person, total, for the whole weekend. This is because I am good at what I do.
Of course, I looked up reviews for the hotel. Not so great. I really can't complain for $1000, for eight people, over four nights. But the thought of sleeping on an uncomfortable bed, or unclean sheets, or bathing under sketchy water, already has my skin crawling a little. I would be willing to pay more for soft sheets and pristine toilets. Those are booked. Even if they weren't, I'd be flying solo due to cost.
I used to not mind. I used to be able to crash anywhere, curled up on a cement floor with nothing but my next day of clothing under me. Rock quarries in Mexico. Hidden corners of conventions. Five people piled onto one couch. And now, I just want a soft, warm bed where I can be spoiled into sleep.
Where the hell did my spirit of survival go?
I'm just glad one of us is going to have a driver's license but be physically unable to consume alcohol. I have free reign to get obliterated. No one minds if you bring a coffee cup full of gin on the convention floor. Trust me, I've done this.
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