So Friday night I flew to San Diego.
I hate flying. I used to like it, when I was younger, but now I’m elderly. My mortality doesn’t just stare me in the face, it actually does a little dance and waves and sticks its tongue out at me going NEENER, NEENER, NEEEEE-NER! I can’t help but think of all the many things that could go wrong, and the way the plane rocks and rolls in the sky just makes me wish I had a parachute. And a cocktail. And a Xanax. Or three.
But, I survived the flight, and an hour after I landed I found myself behind the wheel of a 16-foot rental truck holding all the
junk worldly possessions of our friend Iz, who will be squatting in our spare room until greener pastures become available.
Now, the plan was that I had three days to make the trip from San Diego to Vancouver, and aside from wanting to get through Los Angeles in the dead of night when the traffic wouldn’t be too horrible, we had no real itinerary. Iz can’t drive owing to a recent knee surgery, so it was all me, baby. We could just stay in whatever motel would take a dog (Iz has a dog) and it would all be good.
Yeah, not so much. For a variety of reasons, and for no real reason that I can determine, I got all spastic about driving. And did I mention that I don’t sleep well away from home? And and and. So I decided to just go.
And so I drove 1100 miles in about 36 hours.