I have a dread of missed flights. I get no adrenalin rush from the just made flight–mad dash to airport, gate, plane. I prefer to be early, painfully early to hear most describe it.
My family does not operate this way. Time is more, well, flexible for them. We have missed a flight, once, heading home from Las Vegas.
So, traveling with us is a mix of comfort zones: on one hand, I hate to be late; on the other hand, they hate to wait. Not quite a “which way do you put the roll of toilet paper on the roller” level difference, in so much as it is not a daily occurrence. But every so often it provides a little extra frisson.
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