“I’ll drive,” he said. He being MyFella. And so our plans for a trip to Corpus Christi, Texas, began to celebrate the 50th birthday of a friend of ours. We planned one overnight each way, and told ourselves the trip is more about the journey, not to worry about the time.
Probably 10 hours into a 14 hour drive, MyFella decided that if we were to ever go back, he would learn to fly.
Our first souvenir was a young Texas State Trooper who somehow noticed MyFella had tugged and pulled his seat belt into a position under his arm, rather than over his shoulder. The Trooper told us that wearing it improperly was considered the same as not wearing it at all. He really was incredibly nice, and he gave us a warning. It’s very official looking. It doesn’t go on your record, and there was no monetary fee.
Honestly, I think we caught the trooper's eye because he caught mine, and I was doing some serious rubber necking in the passenger seat to see if he was a hottie. I didn't plan on getting such an up close look.
Our next couple of days were a whirlwind of Mexican food, Texan food (not that impressive) and a batch of real Pork bbq that we had hauled in a cooler just because the birthday boy wanted it.
There’s a couple of tacky group pictures and probably still some sand from Padre Island in my car as proof we were there. And most importantly, MyFella and I survived that much cooped-up-together time. That in itself was a gift to us.