The road trip from hell
First Posted: 12/4/2014
Last week, we moved our daughter into her new home, 3 hours away. I was so excited! So proud! So thrilled to join her on this thrilling leg of her life journey. Until that leg developed deep vein thrombosis.
It began well enough. We rented a massive moving truck and her furniture and a few ugly coffee mugs were stacked and ready to load. I thought we would have such a fun day. Epic. Miscalculation.
To begin, let’s just say that the stinking moving van took on a life of its own. It sprung tentacles from every angle and when my very short husband tried to maneuver it to and fro, disaster ensued. That bad boy had a back bumper the size of Kansas and my husband tapped a parked car with that monstrosity. Oops. The poor man can’t boast as much experience on the topic as I, and he became quite agitated. Outwardly I commiserated, but inwardly I chanted; “ThankGodItWasn’tMe. ThankGodItWasn’tMe. ThankGodItWasn’tMe.”
After insurance information was traded and he completed his special variety of uttered expletives, we began our escapade. The truck clearly states on the side panel: “Three passenger vehicle.” OK, well I can tell you it should clearly have stated instead: “Two passenger and one legless mammal vehicle.” There was no freaking way we were all fitting in there. With my husband’s patience at negative 10, however, I had no choice but to scamper into that hellhole and try to be a team player. Team Whine. To my daughter, I muttered: “I’m an old lady – why do I get the middle seat?” Her: “Because you’re an old lady and you’ll forget about this whole experience in about 3 hours. Plus your legs are already stunted.”
Incidentally, this “third” seat was actually a flip-down booster appropriate for a toddler, dwarf or Nemo. I’m 4’11” and the only way I could fit my body into that seat was to straddle the center console for three hours, or fold myself into the shape of an artichoke. We drove .05 miles before I screamed: “I can’t do this.” My cervix is being compromised!” I finally swung my legs over to my daughter’s side- leaving only my torso in the electric chair –and off we went.
If my husband’s driving is questionable on a good day in a regular vehicle, the rental truck trek was positively harrowing. He thought he was awesome. I looked over at my daughter, terror dancing in my eyes. Her own eyes were closed, phone up to her ear. “What are you doing? You’re missing all the highway danger.” She scolded: “Shhhh. I’m meditating”. I rolled my eyes at my husband, ate another Tastycake and continued to read about Kim Kardashian’s latex dress. If I had that dress on and rolled in some WD-40, I would’ve totally fit more efficiently into that stupid truck.
We arrived, we unloaded, we left. I exhaled. My husband and I don’t travel well together. I never shut up and he doesn’t listen. The perfect marriage. After a spirited conversation deliberating the “Big Mac vs. Whopper Junior” debate, my daughter rested her head back and put a Wet Wipe on her forehead.
She whispered: “This whole trip was like Shutter Island. If you weren’t crazy when you went in it, you’ll be crazy when you get out…”