Journeys With Jani

So, let’s talk about this Blue Origin situation for a hot second—because apparently, that’s about how long the whole thing lasted. Eleven. Minutes. ELEVEN. As in less time than it takes me to book a full-blown European adventure and pack my toiletry bag.

Now, let me be clear—I am 100% here for actual space exploration. The kind where people study stars, float in zero gravity, and maybe—just maybe—do something that helps humankind. But what I’m not here for is billionaires playing cosmic bumper cars and calling it a mission to the moon. These folks paid big money to take a joyride to the edge of the atmosphere, and now they’ve slapped “astronaut” on their LinkedIn like they just built the International Space Station with their bare hands.

And the emotions. Oh, the drama. Katy Perry acting like she just witnessed the Second Coming. Oprah’s bestie Gayle King (that’s her name, y’all) practically weeping like she watched someone solve world peace up there. I repeat: ELEVEN. MINUTES. I’ve had iced coffee orders take longer. Heck, I’ve had hot flashes last longer.

Let’s talk about something truly worthy of applause—parenting adult children. You want to feel like you’re navigating uncharted territory? Try guiding grown kids through love, life choices, therapy-worthy family group texts. I’m not saying it takes NASA-level patience, but let’s just say Mission Control has nothing on a momma waiting for her adult son to text back after she sent him a long, emotionally supportive message. Three days ago.

And don’t get me started on travel planning. While these yahoos are spending millions to bounce into near space for less time than it takes to watch The Golden Bachelor, I’m down here planning honeymoons, anniversaries, and once-in-a-lifetime bucket list trips that actually change lives. I help real people experience real wonder—from the pineapple farms in Hawaii to the beaches of Cabo—and I do it with love, spreadsheets, and a signature eye-roll for this Blue Origin nonsense.

So, while I toast to the real astronauts—the ones who train for years, wear adult diapers for science, and maybe lose a toenail or two in the name of space—I’ll also raise an eyebrow at the rich folks cosplaying Buzz Lightyear on a bouncy ride to the sky.

Because I may not have been to space…

But I’ve survived raising adults, I’ve planned hundreds of actual adventures, and baby, I’ve got both feet on the ground and my head in the clouds.

The end. (Until Bezos gets froggy again.)