OK, not really.
I’ve found myself recently looking wistfully at the blogs of RVing families, like The Happy Janssens and The Ticknor Tribe, imagining what it would be like to sell everything we own and move into an RV. Aside from the fact that neither my husband nor I have any practical skills that could bring us money on the road, and the fact that constant travel, while it would bring us the chance to have friendships with a broader range of people, would potentially hinder the development of deeper relationship connections, RVing is quite appealing to me.
I love road trips. I love mapping out the route and finding fun places to stop along the way. There’s a difference in experiencing a place from the outside in, like you can when you’re driving to that place, than from just jumping into the place from an airport and bypassing everything in between.
And as anyone who’s ever traveled with me can attest, simply bringing my dwelling with me on the trip is the next logical step in the evolution of my road-tripping life.
In addition, I just love all of the nooks and crannies and tiny little spaces that are in RVs. Everything goes somewhere. It has to. There’s nowhere else to put it. It would be like a really advanced decluttering exercise to pare things down enough to fit all of our possessions into the storage space in an RV.
When we were in California, my husband’s grant was running out and his job search was taking longer than we’d anticipated. I looked into all manner of contingency plans to try and make our money stretch further in the event that his income stopped and there was no concrete prospect for future income. One option I explored was selling everything in our apartment but the bare minimum, and moving my husband, our then two-year-old daughter, and our two cats into a small RV. We could, I figured, live at one of the nearby campgrounds. My husband could take the car to work and my daughter and I could go hiking every day. When my husband got a job just weeks before his funding ran out, I was relieved, but also just a tiny bit disappointed that we hadn’t had the chance to do something so bold as to live in a vehicle. We had to settle for moving to Salt Lake City, which at that time seemed pretty darned bold.
When I spoke with my husband about this, he was very calm.
“When I was younger,” he said, “I used to worry when you would talk like this. But I’ve known you for a long time, and I know you’re just trying to work something out.”
“This too shall pass?” I suggested.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “I like that you look at things from so many different perspectives. And I know that you have to go to extremes to get things to make sense. If you’re here,” he put one index finger down on the table, “and you want to make a change, you think about going here,” he put his other index finger about 18 inches from the first, “so you can end up here,” and he moved his second index finger to a spot just inches from the first.
Yep. My husband knows me.
I know that the only reason I’m fantasizing about buying an RV is that I’m trying to work something out in my head, something that I think is related to the rapid influx of material possessions (currently all over my living room floor) that occurred on Christmas morning. And Christmas night, the baby head-butted me in the nose while I slept. You may find this surprising, but being awakened by a loud crack inside your head, searing pain in your nose, and stars before your eyes isn’t the best way to start the day after Christmas feeling relaxed.
In fact, I feel quite squirmy and unsettled.
Facing three days with my husband back at work, I find myself thinking, “What on EARTH am I going to do with these children?” And I have the babysitter for three hours Monday afternoon (and I’m thinking, “What on EARTH am I going to do with three hours on my own?”).
I guess I could always go looking at RVs. Or maybe I could just rearrange furniture.