How
NOT to Drive a 31-Foot RV: A Cautionary Tale with a Hilarious Twist
Get ready for a
wild ride, buttercup, because this isn’t your run-of-the-mill RV road trip tale.
It’s a rollercoaster of matrimonial missteps, mechanical madness, and a woman
who learns the true meaning of ‘hit the road, Jack!’ in the most hilarious ways
possible.
But this was not always the rough edge of our marriage.
When we were dating, Sam sent me dozens of red roses and told me he was “a little
rough around the edges.” This sounded like a challenge to me.
At
one point, darn, I was flattered! His whole two hundred and seventy-five-pound
frame took on a Rhett Butler appearance. I could have sworn at one point, he
called me “Scarlett.”
Picture
this: I, a trucking company alumna
turned RV rookie, and my husband Sam, a construction guru-engineer turned
nervous Nellie, embarking on our maiden voyage in a three-year-old Pace Arrow.
Our destination? Diamond Lake is a
recreational oasis promising fishing and swimming and a potential permanent
parking spot for our colossal camper.
Little did I know,
our journey would transform Sam from a big rig newbie to a bona fide
RV road warrior. Now, my ex-husband
(more on that later) was a strapping specimen, a man’s man who could wrangle a
five-ton truck and shoot lasers with the best of them. But put him behind the
wheel of an RV? Suddenly, he was a quivering bowl of Jell-O.
Our trip began with a bang – and I’m not talking about
fireworks. After a thorough lecture from Sam on the importance of a full
fresh water tank (even for an overnight trip), I dutifully backed our behemoth off the concrete pad he’d built explicitly for it.
Sam
rushed to the driver’s side door. “I’ll
whip her right out of here!” Sam says proudly as he flopped down in the captain’s
chair.
Honeymoon?
More Like Honey-Don’t-Moon
Who could have
predicted the catalyst for my ‘former husband’
status? Sam, my Dr. Jekyll-turned-Mr. Hyde, had a knack for transforming from
charming suitor to domineering dictator faster than you can say ‘marriage
license.’ No red flags there, right? Cue a sarcastic eye roll.
Minutes later, we were on the road—or should I say, off the
road. A deafening screech and the sound of metal on metal brought us to an
abrupt halt. The storage compartment door was open and didn’t take kindly to
being introduced to our driveway gate.
Two miles down the road –Just when I thought Sam was
getting the hang of this RV Lesson, he ran two people in a bright yellow
Volkswagen Rabbit off the road and down an embankment.
“My Gawd,” I shouted, “Sam, aren’t you going to stop?”
“Nay, don’t sweat the small stuff!” he said, adding, “I saw them in the side
mirror. They came out on the other side of the ditch.”
The
Scenic Route (Or How to Give Your Wife Whiplash)
Undeterred,
we continued our journey, taking the scenic route that involved multiple
unplanned detours onto the shoulder of the road. I offered to drive, but Sam, the “dedicated,
hard-working man,” insisted on plowing ahead, leaving a trail of
bewildered wildlife in our wake.
Upon arriving at Diamond Lake, Sam
exited the passenger seat and said, “Back her in, honey.” I expertly backed the RV into our slot (while Sam
mysteriously disappeared). I precisely know he was not under it. We set up camp. Just as I was about to grill up
some well-deserved T-bone steaks, Sam declared he didn’t like the site and
wanted to try another campground. Sigh.
Windy
Hollow: Where Dreams (and Side Mirrors) Go to Die
Our next stop, Windy Hollow Campground, proved to be
equally eventful. After balking at the price (which I ended up paying
a reasonable price),
Sam attempted to park the RV himself, resulting in a missing side mirror and
fewer layers of paint.
Hungry, exhausted, and ready for a movie night, I suggested
firing the grill. Sam, however, was more interested in “sitting down on
his dead backside for the night.” Finally, something we could agree on!
The
Great Escape
As
Sam exited the RV, a brilliant idea was brewing in my mind.
I hopped into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and hit the gas, leaving my
grumpy husband in dust and confusion. He was waving something toward me, displaying
a beet-red face even from a distance, and I don’t think it was his ring finger.
I parked the RV and placed the “for sale” sign back on the windshield when I arrived home. Then, I drew a bubble bath, cranked up Bach on the whole-house
stereo system, Air on the G String, BWV 1068, a hauntingly beautiful melody
for string orchestra known for its serene and melancholic atmosphere,
and toasted my newfound freedom with a
glass of wine. Then my two rotten Pomeranians and I hit
the road, Jack.
So,
the moral of the story? Sometimes, the best way to navigate a rocky marriage is
to unhitch the trailer and drive off into the sunset. And remember, ladies, if
your husband’s ego is more significant than your RV, it might be time to trade
him in for a newer model.
