I don’t travel enough. Well, I travel every now and then because I have the disposable income to do so, yo (also, no children or pets so don’t have to worry about putting anything into kennels before fleeing the country. Yep, I’m going to be an excellent mother) and only feel mildly guilty for doing so (on a good day, not when subjected to mournful charity adverts pleading for my monthly donation).
However, I’ve only journeyed a few times in my life far enough to experience jet lag. And I was a teenager at the time so I doubt that’s an entirely representative sample of how it generally is. On the other hand, I am equipped of this incredibly powerful imagination of mine so I can probably translate instances in my own life into what it’s probably like.
Think of yourself with a cold (I totally haven’t had a thoroughly stinking one recently and feel compelled to share the pain in an indirect quest for sympathy from strangers). You can hardly breathe, perhaps your throat is sore and scratchy, your eyes mighty be streaming from the virus or possibly just the sadness of being not quite well. Your situation is quite definitely under the weather. A heaviness has settled not just over your sinuses but steadfastly atop your entire being.
Now cast your mind backwards. To those heady halcyon days when you were well. Perhaps that’s overstating things. On a normal day you’ve got that ache in your legs or hips or feet or whatever, those allergies you’re so very proud of and are almost always on the brink of a headache. You don’t have to feel your pulse pounding through your nose though. Whenever you’re not quite right you can always recall in terrifying detail what it was like before and long for that time to come again.
Song choices courtesy of: The Moldy Peaches, Shpongle and Frank Turner