How
NOT to Drive a 31-Foot RV: A Cautionary Tale with a Hilarious Twist
Get ready for a wild ride, buttercup. This isn’t your
run-of-the-mill "happy camper" road trip tale. This is a high-octane
rollercoaster of matrimonial missteps, mechanical madness, and the moment I
learned that sometimes, the best way to "hit the road" is to leave
the baggage—and the husband—behind.
The
"Rough Around the Edges" Trap
At
first, I
fell for the classic bait-and-switch. When we were dating, Sam sent me dozens
of red roses and warned me he was “a little rough around the edges.” To my
younger, optimistic self, that sounded like a charming DIY project.
At one point, I was flattered! His 275-pound frame took on a confident Rhett Butler swagger. I could have sworn I heard him call
me “Scarlett.” Little did I know
that the only things we’d be "Gone with the Wind" about would be our security deposit and my patience.
The
Maiden Voyage of the Pace Arrow
Picture this: I am a trucking company alumna (I know my way
around a diesel engine). Sam is a construction guru-turned-engineer who, as it
turns out, becomes a "Nervous Nellie" the moment he’s three feet
above the asphalt.
Our vessel? A three-year-old, 31-foot Pace Arrow.
Our destination? Diamond Lake, a recreational oasis promising fishing,
swimming, and—hopefully—a permanent parking spot for our colossal camper.
The trip began with a bang. And no, it wasn’t fireworks.
After Sam gave me a grueling lecture on the physics of
freshwater tanks, I dutifully backed our behemoth off the concrete pad he’d
built for it. Suddenly, Sam rushed to
the
driver’s side.
“I’ll whip her right out of here!” he announced, flopping
into the captain’s chair with the unearned confidence of a man who had never
hit a gate post.
A
Trail of Destruction (and Corvettes)
Minutes later, we were on the road—or more accurately, off
it. A deafening screech of metal-on-metal echoed through the neighborhood.
The storage compartment door was wide open, and we had decided to engage with our driveway gate. The gate won.
Two miles down the road, Sam was finally "finding his
groove." That groove apparently involved the entire shoulder of the
highway. Before I could scream "Check your mirrors!", he forced a bright
yellow Corvette
off
the road and straight into a ditch.
“My Gawd, Sam! Aren’t you going to stop?” I shouted.
He didn't even tap the brakes. “Nay, don’t sweat the small
stuff! I saw ‘em in the mirror. They came out the other side of the ditch...
eventually.”
Windy
Hollow: Where Side Mirrors Go to Die
By the time we hit the scenic route, I had whiplash from
his "plowing ahead" strategy. When we finally reached Diamond Lake,
Sam suddenly lost his bravado.
“Back her in, honey,” he said, sliding out of the seat. I
expertly guided the RV into the slot while Sam mysteriously vanished (likely to
hide from the shame of his driving). But just as I started the grill for our
T-bone steaks, Sam decided he "didn't like the vibe" and wanted to
find a new campground.
We ended up at Windy Hollow. After a heated debate
over the price, Sam attempted to park. He ended the night with one less side
mirror and several fewer layers of expensive paint.
The
Great Escape https://hopeloveacceptanceflourish.blogspot.com/
Exhausted and hungry, I suggested a movie night. Sam,
however, was only interested in "sitting on his dead backside" and
grumbling. As he stepped out of the RV to tinker with something—likely to find
something else to break—a brilliant, shimmering idea took hold of me.
I hopped into the driver’s seat. I locked the doors. I hit
the gas.
In the rearview mirror, I saw Sam. His face was a shade of beet red I didn’t know existed. He was waving something at me—and
based on the trajectory, it wasn't his wedding ring.
Freedom,
Bach, and Pomeranians
When I got home, I didn't just park the RV; I put the
"For Sale" sign back in the window.
I drew a deep bubble bath, poured a glass of chilled
Chardonnay, and cranked Bach’s vinyl Air on the G String, BWV
1068, on the stereo. The haunting, serene melody was the perfect soundtrack
for my newfound clarity.
The moral of the story? Sometimes, the best way to navigate
a rocky marriage is to unhitch the trailer and drive into the sunset. If your
husband’s ego is bigger than your 31-foot RV, it’s time to trade him in for a
newer model.
Now, my two rotten Pomeranians and I are hitting the road
for real. Hit the road, Jack!
Did you enjoy this tale of highway havoc? Tap and share this post with someone who needs a laugh (or a divorce lawyer)!
Comments
Post a Comment