I hate flying like almost-out-of-hot-water showers.

You know the type. It starts out OK. It cranks up with a a little bit of heat and some pressure. At first pretty calm, and I’m tricked into thinking that this time it’ll be different. But then it really gets going. It stings my chest like 1,000 fingernails. My lungs constrict; I’m short of breath, and I’m shaking uncontrollably. All of a sudden, the only thing on my mind is ending this once semi-pleasurable experience and get on with my life.

The shower stops. We land. Exhale.

I hate flying, but with a gas-happy Ford Escape and $3.30 per gallon, driving to Asheville, N.C. for my sister’s bachelorette extravaganza–”party” just doesn’t quite cut it–wasn’t an option.

Nine over-worked and uber-stressed women trekked from Gainesville, Lexington, Raleigh and Charlotte to the largest home in America to suspend reality. For one weekend, we were rock stars. There were tapas and ‘tinis, wine tastings at the vineyard and the expected rowdiness associated with bachelorettes. We left deadlines, law review and boyfriends behind to sip champagne, toast true love and marinate at the spa.

Two days wasn’t enough. We bid farewell to the Biltmore and dispersed to our separate homes.

Winding down the mountain on Sunday, dodging ice patches and sipping coffee from the morning’s brunch, the was only one thing I was thinking to keep calm before the storm:

“Damn, I have got to get myself a manor.”