I love to drive long distances. But when you are attempting to move across the country and you are joined by the entourage I was responsible for, the normally simple dynamics of space and time go right out the window. In previous posts, I talked a little about space - never enough with our menagerie; today's post attempts to share some thoughts on time as well as a few other circumstances that arose as we journeyed westward.
In a simple world (or a previous life), driving across the country can be a leisurely, informative, and culturally rich experience. Taking your time on the drive, sampling the local cuisine, and visiting the occasional historical site can all make the long journey seem almost fun. However, transporting five people and eight animals in two vehicles, hauling a double-axeled trailer and working with a limited amount of time and funds can make the trip just a shade south of "fun" and a lot like National Lampoon's Vacation - minus Randy Quaid and the late Aunt Edna.
Not surprisingly, our toughest issue was time. Originally, the plan was to drive ten to twelve hours per day and to finish the trip in three nights and four days. I was quick to realize however, that my version of driving time did not include pit stops for the animals, time to eat, and most of all driving fatigue. Ten to twelve hours soon became fourteen to sixteen, and four days ended up being six.
If you own an animal, you know that despite our best efforts they often march and/or go to the bathroom on their own schedule. More importantly, arrival at the designated bathroom/rest stop area does not always guarantee instant success. Such seemingly innocuous factors as wind speed or direction, types of soil/grass, other dogs, and perhaps temperature or even their mood, may all be delaying factors.
My overly ambitious timetable was also thwarted by the amount of time it took to feed the humans on board. Visiting local eateries on our trek was never a possibility - too much time, and what would we do with the animals while we ate? To put it more succinctly, we were going to cross America one fast food restaurant at a time. From McDonald's to Subway; Jack in the Box to Arby's, we sampled them all, took our food with us in the car, and drove on. I'm convinced that if the Lewis and Clark expedition had to do the same, they would have flamed out on an Angus burger somewhere around Laramie, Wyoming and never made it to the west coast. Or maybe on an Italian club - hold the onions . . .
The good news in all of this is that I was introduced to a new and important addition to my soft drink menu - Red Bull. Having limited my previous "stimulating" experiences to innumerable cups of coffee - thereby contributing on my own to the "rest stop" factor - I found that the occasional one shot fix of a large sugar free can of Red Bull to be an answer to prayer or at least drooping eyelids. If or when Britany Spears or Lindsay Lohan burn out again in the public eye, I'm willing and ready to become the new spokesperson . . .
If time dictated changes in our plans, poor packing on my part almost made things worse. Anticipating hot weather along the way, the day before we left I purchased several pair of new shorts. Going against my normal habits, I even tried them on prior to purchase. Alas, I forgot to factor in "clothing fatigue" or the inevitable stretching out of your clothes - especially pants - the longer you wear them. Perhaps this is a phenomenon known only to me, but the result - added to the fact that I also forgot to bring a belt - all contributed to "A Dad in Middle Age" frequently wearing his shorts as low or lower than the average urban hipster - no pun intended - high school student.
To even further burn this pitiful and scary image into your memory, picture me holding said pants up and walking the dogs, or carrying luggage, or simply getting out of the car. I must admit I learned a lot of tricks - from the one hand grab and hold, the two handed quick lift, and my personal favorite, the lift and run with the luggage as fast as you can until you end up tripping on your shorts. For those who care, these same shorts now work great with a belt . . .
Finally, I noticed an odd phenomena the further west we traveled: tattoos became both more frequent and less attractive on the people we met. Granted, we were visiting a lot of fast food joints, truck stop gas stations, and accommodations far from the Ritz-Carleton - nonetheless, it seemed that quantity trumped quality wherever we went.
In the middle of summer, it's not unusual to see more skin on the people around you. Tank tops, short sleeve shirts, and the occasional tube top all testify to the August heat. But how necessary is it to cover that same skin with a myriad of tattoos featuring dragons, lizards, family pets, or the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend's name? I won't even go into the number of Chinese characters I saw etched into flesh across America's heartland. It seemed as if the entire country west of the Mississippi had discovered the show "Miami Ink" simultaneously.
Let me clearly state that I have nothing against tattoos - some of my best friends have them. However, I would like to think that if I was going to show the world my tattoo, quality - as they say - would be job #1. For most of the people I saw with tattoos, it looked as if they had done it themselves or at the very least, at a parlor down by the docks and two doors down from a biker bar . . . Several were already showing evidence of aging - the people, not the tattoos - with the end result being that their tattoos inevitably aged also - and not always well. Some markings that I saw were so stretched out their phrases were edging towards the large print editions for the sight impaired, and one or two made my drooping pants in comparison seem to fit like spandex . . .
Perhaps it was the fatigue from driving, the inevitable return to earth from the Red Bull high, or maybe even the fast food refusing to break down in my system - whatever the reason, no one I saw had tattoos of the quality much beyond my uncle's World War Two blue ink specials. Come on America, if you're gonna decorate your body permanently, at least consider how it will look 20 or 30 years from now.
As only a wife can, Julie summed up my look in the above-mentioned shorts with a phrase applicable to both the shorts and my tattoo views: "Those are hardly what I would call attractive . . ."
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