Road Trip

RANDOM FACT OF THE POST: Scotland’s national animal is the unicorn.

I know what you’re doing right now. You’re sitting in front of your laptop, wondering what it would be like to abandon all reason and hop in an RV with five close family members for a week long camp out 15 hours away from that place you call home.
Enticing as it sounds, I don’t recommend it. Oh, it’s fun on occasions, sure, and it gives you a ton of stories to blog about (you will be hearing about this for a while), but it HURTS.
Physically, mentally, socially…
PHYSICALLY
I sit here writing with four bruises polka-dotting my legs, thirteen (an unlucky number) bug bites of unknown origin spotting my body, and a wicked sunburn creeping up my legs, arms, and back. (I must defend myself here–I applied sunscreen four times in a six-hour period and sat with a book in my lap beneath an umbrella. I do wear red very well, though. And with my bright green shirt on, I’m a walking Christmas in June. Long story short, I’m white.) My hygiene has also taken a beating, as I wish jump in and out of the moth-and-spider-ridden showers as quickly as possible. I have neglected my hair, so it sits in an abandoned nest atop my head.
And Aloe Vera gel is rather sticky and shiny and unflatteringly green…
MENTALLY
I sit here, reflecting on this 15-mile drive. It’s in the 80s and our air conditioning is not on. As a matter of fact, our heat was on for three hours before we realized it. We therefore opened the windows in the hopes of cooling down. And then it rained, and open windows were not cool anymore. Now, they’re cool again and my hair/nest is sweeping up into a tornado. The GPS system is not built for RVs. It drove us down a long, thin road and expected us to squeeze through a gate. Only fat vehicles do not squeeze through, nor do they turn around on thin roads easily. This predicament led to a string of swear words from my grandfather, which then prompted my mother to stress over my young brother hearing such angry words, and so loud conversations and monologues wrestled with one another for center stage. The link between the RV and the Jeep trailing behind it continuously unlocks, which paves the path for more streams of swear words from my grandfather and angry outbursts from my now-stressed, tired, and work-burdened father (and therefore more pressure on my mother and more shell shocked expressions from my grandmother).
And mental damage also comes from what conversations do take place. Like each time we stop at a gas station:
GRANDPA: Do you want anything from the gas station?
ME: Nope, I’m good!
GRANDPA: You sure? They have lemonade…
ME: Yep, I’m sure. I’m not thirsty.
GRANDPA: So do you want the raspberry lemonade or the strawberry lemonade or just the regular lemonade?
ME: Grandpa, thanks for asking, but like I said, I don’t want lemonade.
GRANDPA: Okay, then, if you’re sure.
[1 minute later]
GRANDMA: You’re grandpa’s in there buying you a raspberry lemonade, does that sound good?
ME: I told him I’m not thirsty!
GRANDMA: Oh, well he must have misunderstood you.
[another minute later]
GRANDPA: Hey, I brought you raspberry lemonade!
DAD: Here, I know you said you weren’t hungry but we’ll be on the road for a while, so I got you twizzlers.
ME: *facepalm*
EVERY. TIME. WE. STOP.
Worst of all, I really wanted Chick-Fil-A, only to realize they close on Sunday.
I should probably see a therapist.
SOCIALLY
Yes, because every teenager’s reputation is elevated from camping out with their family.
It. Hurts.

*DISCLAIMER: Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy camping. I love my family. But I really feel crabby cooped up in a sweltering, cramped vehicle for 15 hours. I needed to rant somehow. Thank you, patient Internet readers.