Comfort Zones

I think the older I get the more clearly defined my comfort zones become. Over the years my tastes in hotels have changed drastically--no longer is the cheapest the best option. For instance, I used to be able to put up with the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the room--now, I'm either switching rooms or switching hotels. Just can't stand it.

Yesterday, on my way home from Pittsburgh, I needed to stop for gas. Now, usually, I'm picky. I'll only stop at bigger interstate stations (TA, Pilot, etc), because I feel relatively safe there, the bathrooms are usually clean, and they have a great selection of junk, er, snack food. But yesterday I found myself on a stretch of I71 that was fairly desolate--and I was in need of gas. So, I reluctantly pulled off at a roadside station, the only one in this small farming community. Oh boy. Was I shoved out of my comfort zone. Dark, dingy, lots of men just hanging around. I. Couldn't. Wait. To. Get. Out. Of. There. I would have kept on going if only I'd known ten miles down the road there was a Pilot...

Well, I survived. The bathroom was bypassed, as was the snack food, but the car had gas--and it got me home safe and sound.

My next road trip is in a month--back to Chicago for Printer's Row Lit Fest, and I'll make sure not to let the gas get so low again!

~Heather