In the two and a half years of our relationship, Poor Kyle and I have taken more road trips together than I can feasibly count. And since the new duty of “trailer fetcher” at the shop has fallen upon him, the number of our road trips together is increasing exponentially. Even as I type this on the stark white MacBook ™ my parents gave me for Christmas last year, we are trekking our way through the plains and grains of northern Nebraska.
We’ve nearly talked about everything there is to talk about (lasting an eternity together beyond this point will take a miracle [or a lot more birth control]), and consequently I’ve had a lot of quiet, contemplative time on my hands. Of course any time I have any time at all, I can’t seem to help but write a blog in my head. It gets annoying, but at least it’s something to do—I’d rather read my own words than some of those trashy tabloids they sell at the Flying J for two dollars apiece.
Here’s what I’ve decided while driving through Nebraska:
(in no particular order)
-I can be right in the middle of recounting a fascinating tale to Poor Kyle, but if he sees an interesting truck or trailer on the same road we’re traveling, he will—without fail—whip his head around and gawk as it rolls by, completely losing focus on my story. I have come to accept this as fact. Usually I react by continuing the story (in turn forcing Poor Kyle to pretend he’d been listening all along).
-If Poor Kyle is writing in his logbook, keeping track of mileage or even simply fiddling with the GPS, he will not listen to a word I say, should I attempt to snare his attention. It is physically impossible for him to multi-task. I’ve never seen it done; he has never done it.
-Poor Kyle is a faithful—faithful—keeper of the windshield:
-I have, on occasion, been known to suggest interesting topics of conversation on our road trips together. Rather, I consider them to be interesting topics of conversation. Poor Kyle, on the other hand, views this as “picking fights.” He may be correct in this assessment, but in my defense…he is lugging me all about the country in a baby-poop coloured Carhartt ™ hoodie. And he didn’t necessarily set out any ground rules ahead of time.
-Poor Kyle and I will never agree on what constitutes “good music.”
-Poor Kyle will always trust the GPS (he calls her “Tips”) more than he will trust me. Sometimes I hate that little British snob.
-There are nineteen white reflector poles in between each green mile marker on the highway (give or take a few on account of drunk drivers running them over). I can count miles with my eyes closed, shutting them right after seeing “MILE 258” flash by, and opening them precisely as we approach “MILE 259.” Sometimes I do this for so long that I cannot stop unless the vehicle does; it makes my head hurt.