There’s a very specific kind of excitement that comes the day before a solo international trip. A rare, almost mythical energy. The kind that only we understand. The brethren. The tribe. The ones who’ve spent too many hours on Flyertalk forums and have strong opinions about aircraft subtypes. Only we get us.

When I mentioned this trip to friends or colleagues, I was met with the same quizzical head tilt and furrowed brow.
“You’re doing what?”
“You’re flying to the UK… for two days?”
They looked at me like I was some sort of deeply confused, points-obsessed mutant. Which, to be fair, I am. But in here—in this community—these trips aren’t just understood. They’re celebrated. They’re the stuff of legends.

Emotionally, I’m oscillating between giddy anticipation and mild guilt. But let’s be clear: this isn’t indulgence. This is self-care. It just so happens that my version of self-care involves lie-flat beds, warm nuts, and a wine list with footnotes.

There’s a particular kind of freedom in knowing that, for five brief, blissful days, no one will ask me what’s for dinner, where their school hat is, or whether their iPad has been charged.
Instead, I’ll be contemplating far more important questions, like:
“Champagne or scotch?”
I’m kidding, of course. I’ll have both. At the same time.

Right now, I’ve got seven hours until my first flight. Between now and then, I’ll drop the kids at school, finish a few work things, and pretend to be a functioning adult. But mentally, I’m already gone—wandering the marble floors of the Qantas First Lounge, sipping something French, wondering if Neil Perry has finally lifted his game. (Spoiler: probably not. But hope, like status, springs eternal.)

The first leg is a puddle jumper from Canberra to Sydney. Barely a flight, really—but symbolically, it marks the moment the wheels lift off and the escape begins.

After that: Qantas First Lounge. Then Qatar First.

Am I really flying halfway around the world just for a seat and a meal?

Absolutely.
And I regret nothing.