Or: Feet, Curry, and Other Forms of Character Development

Friday, at five a.m., my husband—fully of sound mind, at least allegedly—rolled out of bed to go to hot yoga. Voluntarily. While it was still dark outside and I was still negotiating with my bladder about whether it was worth getting up yet.

This time was “shorter,” he said. Just an hour. Because apparently ninety minutes of human simmering was a bit much.

And remember that weird smell he couldn’t identify last time? The one I described as “feet having a fight with takeout”? Mystery solved: it’s curry. There’s an Indian restaurant next door. Thankfully, this time it didn’t smell like tikka masala and despair—but the memory lingers.

He also forgot our yoga mat. Again. Which meant another round on one of those “disinfected community mats,” a phrase that should strike fear into the heart of anyone who’s ever watched a Lysol commercial. Those mats have seen things. They have absorbed things. They’re basically the MRSA of exercise equipment.

When he came home, he reported there were thirteen people packed in this time—nine women, four men, plus the instructor—which is way too many strangers to be sweating in unison. I don’t care if they give you a cookie afterward. There isn’t enough Purell in Northern Virginia to make that sanitary.

Speaking of cookies, they were handing out festive fall ones afterward—pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies with orange frosting and enough sprinkles to qualify as a choking hazard. I never got to find out whether they’d absorbed the ambient curry air, because my son ate mine before I could investigate. He claims it tasted normal. I remain unconvinced. Even if it didn’t taste like curry, I still don’t want baked goods from someone who just marinated in communal sweat. That’s not dessert. That’s a biohazard.

My husband insists he feels amazing afterward—energized, relaxed, spiritually aligned, whatever the buzzword of the week is. I, meanwhile, feel amazing from not being there. My version of self-care involves coffee, temperature control, and zero exposure to other people’s sweat glands.

He’s now talking about going once or twice a week. Which is exactly how cult documentaries begin.

My husband did hot yoga last week.

For the first time.

And, disturbingly, he loved it.

Let me be clear: I am thrilled he’s found something that apparently aligns his chakras and wrings his pancreas clean or whatever, but as for me? Absolutely not.

First of all, my left foot hasn’t contorted properly since 2021 when, you know, Ewing’s sarcoma decided to Airbnb in my metatarsal. Yoga already sounds like a terrible idea for me, but hot yoga? That’s like choosing to do lunges inside a Crock-Pot.

He said there were nine people total: him, one other guy, six women, and the instructor—who made him take off his socks (strike one) and then told him to stand on a towel so he wouldn’t sweat all over the floor (strike two, and possibly a felony).

He also said it smelled weird in there.

Not just “gym weird,” but something else—like feet had a fight with takeout. I didn’t ask questions, because frankly, I didn’t want answers.

Now, if you’ve never been to hot yoga, picture this: a room heated to roughly the temperature of Satan’s garage, where strangers voluntarily twist into shapes not even God intended, while dripping fluids onto shared surfaces. It’s like a cult meeting for people who own too many water bottles.

He tells me you can bring water in but can’t drink it until after the second break.

Ninety minutes.

In 105-degree heat.

With no water.

This is not yoga. This is Hostage Pilates.

And apparently, you can’t leave. Once you’re in, you’re in. Which means if you’ve got IBS or overactive bladder, your best bet is prayer—or an Imodium/Trospium cocktail and a good luck wish from your GI.

Meanwhile, I’m imagining my husband, drenched, surrounded by eight other human steam engines, trying to “center his energy” while avoiding eye contact with someone’s downward-facing sweat.

And the kicker? He came home absolutely glowing. Not spiritually—just physically. Like someone who’s been microwaved.

He said he felt “great.” 

I said, “Fantastic. Take a shower immediately before I divorce you for smelling like hot feet and regret.”

So yeah, he’s already talking about going back again.

Me? I’ll be over here, hydrating like a normal person and avoiding environments where my internal organs might poach themselves.

Hot yoga may be his new thing, but the only “hot” I’m interested in is a latte. Preferably far, far away from anyone’s bare feet.

My mother just left after spending the weekend with us, and I’m sitting here with a half-empty bottle of André’s peach Bellini—because nothing pairs quite like fruit-flavored cheap champagne and residual frustration.

She swears her hearing is perfect. She just “can’t understand what we’re saying.”

Apparently, somewhere along the line, the rest of us devolved into a pack of mumbling feral creatures, communicating exclusively in consonants and sighs. It’s like living inside a David Attenborough documentary about the world’s most exasperated matriarch.

She’ll tilt her head, squint, and say, “You need to speak more clearly.”

So I slow everything down—one word at a time, like I’m narrating a hostage video for preschoolers—and she still can’t understand me.

Then she sighs and says, “Never mind. I’ll just read your lips.” Which she can’t. At all. It’s adorable, really. Like watching a toddler try to lip-read in hieroglyphics.

When she comes over for dinner, my husband inevitably has football on—college on Saturdays, NFL on Sundays—and she’ll sit there politely, like she’s attending a very loud sermon in a language she doesn’t speak.

The referees are screaming, the crowd is roaring, the commentators are shouting in surround sound—and she’ll turn to me and say, “You need to speak more clearly, Elizabeth. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Her misunderstandings have become family legend. Once, she thought a 401K was a floral bouquet. She also believed Best Buy’s Rewards Zone was the War Zone and even ducked like she was under enemy fire. 

And for years, she was convinced that in the song Louie Louie, they were singing about a “wigaphone.” 

When we finally asked what that was, she said, “You know, a wigaphone.”

We do not, in fact, know what that is—but we are patiently waiting for Merriam-Webster to weigh in.

It’s really become less “conversation” over the years and more “closed-captioning gone rogue.”

She had her hearing tested four years ago and proudly reported that it was “perfect.”

She’s 82 now, and hearing can change—especially after four years of listening to nothing but the screeching EMV tires echoing through the halls of her retirement community. So, um… no.

I’ve stopped correcting her. There’s no point.

Every clarification leads to another misunderstanding, like conversational whack-a-mole. Now we just let her roll with it.

Because she’s not wrong about everything.

We probably are mumbling—mostly under our breath, wondering if the wigaphone’s covered by Medicare.

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Fiber-Tini.

I woke up Sunday night drenched in sweat—not the cute, post-Peloton kind of sweat, but the kind that makes you question whether you’ve sprung a leak. I was so soaked I had to get up, change my shirt, and briefly consider burning my sheets as a safety precaution. My hair was plastered to my neck like I’d just crawled out of a swamp, my pillow looked like it had survived a natural disaster, and my glasses fogged up from the steam rising off my own body.

I stood there in the dark, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—a damp, bewildered woman who used to sleep peacefully and now apparently hosts nightly reenactments of The Poseidon Adventure. I thought, So this is forty-something. This is perimenopause. Delightful.

Then, the next day, it happened again—in Walgreens, of all places. I was halfway down the vitamin aisle when my internal thermostat decided to reenact Chernobyl. One minute, I was fine; the next, I was melting into the floor like a human candle under fluorescent lights that I swear doubled as heat lamps. My glasses slid down my nose, my hair started curling in real time, and I could feel my dignity evaporating with my electrolytes.

I looked around and thought, Is this hell? Am I in Walgreens hell?

A woman next to me was comparing fish-oil brands, and I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and whisper, “Enjoy this time. Cherish your estrogen. It’s leaving you soon.” Meanwhile, everyone else was strolling around like it was a pleasant 68 degrees and breezy, and I was over here living out The Inferno in aisle five.

At one point, I opened the freezer door in the ice-cream section just to feel something cold on my face. That’s when I realized: I’ve become that woman—the one who fan-flirts with frozen peas and pretends she’s “just comparing brands.”

And as if that weren’t humbling enough, my mother recently suggested I start taking Metamucil. Not because I’m constipated (though let’s be honest, that day is coming), but because her doctor told her it “keeps things moving.”

Now I drink my little orange cocktail of fiber and defeat every morning, pretending it’s self-care instead of surrender. I stir it with purpose. I sip it with delusion. I tell myself it’s wellness, even though it tastes like citrus-flavored despair and probably means I’m one step closer to joining AARP. This is what self-care looks like in your forties: spontaneous combustion, emotional whiplash, and a digestive routine I apparently share with octogenarians.

And because the universe has a sense of humor, Instagram has now decided to join the conversation. The other day, I opened the app and was immediately greeted by an ad for WeightWatchers for Menopause—starring Queen Latifah, no less, smiling down at me like, Welcome to the club, girl.

I mention Metamucil one time, and suddenly my phone’s trying to sell me hormone-friendly meal plans and sensible shoes. Between the hot flashes and the targeted ads, I think my iPhone’s in perimenopause too.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking maybe I should just lean into it—add a little vodka to the mix and call it a brunch spritzer. Fiber-tini. Metamule. I’m not saying I’ve started using my Metamucil as a mixer, but I’m not not saying it’s an idea worth exploring. Especially for Saturday brunch.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I start my day with Metamucil, end it with melatonin, and spend the hours in between wondering if my hormones are running on shuffle.

So yeah, between the hot flashes, the mood swings, and my new fiber-based lifestyle, it’s been a banner week—and it’s only Tuesday. 🤦‍♀️

But on the bright side, at least I’m hydrated.

And, you know… regular.

I was just innocently scrolling through Hulu when I came across a show called Sewer Divers. For fans of documentaries, it says. Which I am. But I didn’t realize I was also a fan of people who voluntarily dive into literal sewage for a living. Yet here we are.

This poor woman’s basement… y’all. Everything—and I mean everything—is floating. And I swear there’s corn. Which, let’s be honest, tells you everything you need to know about the situation. There’s a guy in waders poking at it like he’s on some noble quest, and I’m over here thinking, Sir. You deserve a medal. And several booster shots.

And then there’s another guy, fully suited up—under the actual streets. In a dry suit (you know, the kind that keeps you dry while you swim through other people’s nightmares), zipped up tighter than a NASA astronaut, just swimming through tunnels like that’s a normal Wednesday. Yikes doesn’t even cover it. You could pay me Jeff Bezos money and I’d still be asking if my tetanus, polio, and everything-in-between shots were up to date before even considering stepping foot down there.

It’s the kind of show that’s both bad and good in the same way that certain scented candles are “ocean breeze” and “low tide” at once. You can’t look away, but you kind of wish you could. It’s riveting, revolting, and—against all odds—comforting.

Because suddenly, my life doesn’t seem so chaotic. Sure, I have 4,000 unread emails, a hoarded-out office that could qualify for a mid-season intervention, and a dog that occasionally snacks on bathroom trash. But at least nothing in my basement is actively floating.

And look, as someone who’s immunocompromised (thank you, multiple sclerosis), this is definitely not the career path for me. But to the folks who do it—thank you. You’re the real heroes. You make it safe for the rest of us to walk around above ground, blissfully unaware of the chaos below our feet.

Because at the end of the day, maybe that’s what we’re all doing—trying to keep the system flowing, one blocked drain at a time.

Update: I just found out Sewer Divers is a series. A whole series. My husband is absolutely thrilled about this development. (Read: not thrilled. At all.)

Somewhere between Oxford and Memphis, we passed a dead armadillo on the side of the road—paws curled toward the sky in quiet surrender. We hoped it wasn’t an omen.

(If it was, it didn’t start with the rental car—shout-out to National for being the one part of this trip that didn’t go sideways.)

First gas station: twelve pumps, none working. Could’ve been an adventure, but we found another one before things got exciting.

Resting heart rate: 122 bpm. Clearly, I need to give up lattes. It’s less “I think I’m having a heart attack” and more “if I do have one, please don’t leave me stuck alone in Memphis while my husband is in D.C. for work.”

And finally—the lovely scent of mildew hanging in the air at our gate. Maybe because a woman sat cross-legged and barefoot nearby, maybe not. Either way: who does that?

More legroom on this flight, though—a luxury we purchased for the low, low price of $85 per person, solely so my husband and I could sit together. It would’ve been $60 each, but that row came with “door responsibilities,” and I’m sorry, I’ve never once looked at an airplane emergency exit and thought, you know who should handle that in a crisis? Me.

Once inside the aircraft, I could smell it—the faint, unmistakable odor of baby poop. The kind that travels. All I could think was, please don’t let that infant be seated behind me. Gratefully, there was not one; however, there was a three-year-old, who spent the next two hours auditioning for Stomp: The Airplane Edition on the back of my seat.

To calm us before takeoff, the flight attendant began the usual announcements, then paused mid-sentence before saying what flight we were on. I guess she forgot. Which is always reassuring when you’re about to be sealed in a metal tube and hurled across the sky at 500 miles an hour.

“Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your flight more comfortable or enjoyable.”

(There is not.)

“Also, if you’re wearing a face mask, be sure to remove it before putting on your oxygen mask.” Because apparently, that needed to be said out loud.

“And remember, put your own mask on before assisting others.”

Yes, thank you. If it comes down to me and the 90-year-old sitting next to me, I’m absolutely choosing me. He’s lived a full life; I’ve still got snacks to review.

Once in the air, I turned around several times, silently pleading with the girl’s mother to notice me—or at least to feel the psychic force of my rage. When that failed, I said (loudly, to no one in particular), “Should I say something? She keeps kicking my seat,” knowing full well my husband was going to say no.

He did.

Ever the peacekeeper, he shook his head, which I took as consent to continue suffering nobly in silence—the true hero of Row 9.

That same three-year-old kicked the back of my seat from tarmac to takeoff to landing—a full two-hour performance art piece titled Let’s See What This Woman’s Breaking Point Is.

Her mother did nothing. Not a glance. Not a word.

The little girl also sucked on something—loudly—for nearly the entire flight.

If you’re wondering what it was, so am I. I’ve ruled out candy and hope it wasn’t her soul.

An hour into our two-hour flight, she was still kicking—now with the added soundtrack of an iPad game, played proudly without earbuds. At that point, I was no longer sure if we were flying to D.C. or directly into the seventh circle of hell.

(To be fair, the girl was otherwise a sweet child—she just needed to learn airplane etiquette and possibly exorcism.)

I glanced toward first class, longing for the peace and quiet of people who pretend to read The Economist while drinking free Chardonnay. The curtain between us—which no one ever bothers to close—isn’t dividing haves and have-nots so much as chaos in two price brackets.

Some of those people just got upgraded. You can tell by the way they’re holding their champagne like it’s a new personality.

I was going to avoid the in-flight beverage service so I wouldn’t have to pee. I’d already had half a Gatorade and half a bottle of water pre-flight—because apparently I hydrate like I’m training for a marathon that ends in a lavatory.

(You’d think I’d have learned something from my flight from Reagan to Memphis, but no.)

My husband urged me to go ahead and get what I wanted, so I did: cranberry juice. Because nothing says wise bladder management like a natural diuretic.

Another person who got in-flight beverage service was the little girl behind me, whose mother proudly told the flight attendant she was “too big for a sippy cup.”

Nothing spilled, but I spent the rest of the flight braced for impact—one tiny hand tremor away from a sticky purse and a slow psychological decline.

When the snack cart rolled around, tragedy struck: they were out of Biscoffs and only serving pretzels. I considered filing a complaint with the FAA.

Instead, I went with plan B—look pitiful and mention, casually, that I have a blog where I review airline snacks.

Moments later, we received not one, not two, but three packages of Biscoffs.

Were they afraid I’d tank American Airlines in the court of public opinion? Maybe.

Either way, I’d call it a win—a sticky-table-tray, high-altitude, cinnamon-flavored win.

I did wind up—as predicted—having to use the bathroom mid-flight, but this time without the call button. The toilet paper in the airplane restroom was mysteriously wet, and I’m choosing to believe it was from water splashing onto the roll. Because believing anything else would require therapy.

I also ran into the Biscoff flight attendant again—who, bless her, showed me a photo of a limited-edition Biscoff cookie like it was her grandchild. Honestly? I get it.

When I returned to my seat, I swear I overheard a woman telling the total stranger next to her about her IBS. I’m sure I misunderstood that one—but I’m confident I didn’t want clarification.

The next hour went by relatively uneventfully, I’m sorry (for you, reader) to say. Except for the crime I witnessed as we deplaned: someone had left two unopened packs of Biscoffs on their seat.

It broke something inside me. For a full minute, I stood there weighing my options—moral integrity or free cookies—before walking away. Growth is hard.

(Or, How I Accidentally Booked a Hippie Commune With a Fire Alarm and Netflix)

We drove right past the place we were supposed to be staying, kept going down a gravel road, and ended up staring at an old Airstream that looked like it had survived several natural disasters and possibly a minor exorcism. For a second, I thought, Oh no. Those Airbnb reviews lied.

To be fair, this happens a lot. My husband has an uncanny ability to find listings with the words “rustic” or “hunting lodge” in the description and think, this looks charming. That’s how we usually end up in places that smell faintly of bait shop and regret.

Our actual Airbnb turned out to be just up the road—a “vintage travel trailer” that had belonged to the owner’s late father, now lovingly restored as a weekend rental. It sat behind a garden that looked like a team of very polite hippies had built it from spare parts and dreams.

The owner was a sweetheart—think gentle, bohemian energy with an apron and an appreciation for solar lights. She taught yoga, naturally, and mentioned that she and her boyfriend were getting ready to move to Ecuador, because of course they were. Her mom lived across the garden in what appeared to be a converted greenhouse. I could see both houses from the deck, which felt comforting in the daylight and a little Deliverance after dark.

Inside, it wasn’t terrible—think Urban Cowboy with better flooring and nicer window coverings. There was no fairy lighting to speak of, but the front deck was incredible—easily bigger than the trailer itself, with garden lights that made you forget for a second that your bedroom had wheels.

The deck overlooked a set of raised garden beds that thrived under what could only be described as commune-level supervision. Everything was green and lush, like the salad bar at a co-op that also sold crystals.

There was a locked closet in the corner the host specifically told us not to open. Which, naturally, made me want to open it more than I had ever wanted to open anything in my life. I had no idea what was inside, but the whole place already screamed Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets The Walking Dead. And whatever was living in that Airstream out back was definitely using water—I just chose to believe it was for a grow farm and not… anything else.

The good news was, I could never have lost anything in there. There simply was nowhere for it to go.

The bed looked nice, but it was a full and jammed into the corner, so there was no graceful way for two people to use it unless you enjoyed sleeping like Tetris pieces. Even as it was, my feet dangled off the edge of the bed (and I’m only 5’6”). My husband, as a result, took the pullout couch—the one the owner had assured us was “very comfortable.” (They always say that.)

The bathroom was… eclectic, in that “please don’t turn on a blacklight” kind of way. A few stray hairs clung to the faucet, likely left behind by a previous guest who either died there or just gave up mid-rinse. There was a candle, incense, and a book of matches, which I could only assume were part of the same emergency plan. The toilet flushed—which, in a trailer, felt like finding a working elevator in an abandoned mall—but I didn’t trust that I could blow dry my hair without triggering an electrical fire or a spiritual awakening. I let it air dry and prayed the smoke alarm wouldn’t mistake it for divine intervention.

The shower was roughly the size of an upright coffin with slightly better lighting. The curtain wrapped around me like cling film every time I moved, and I’m not convinced it hadn’t been part of a crime scene at some point. Getting out was its own escape-room challenge—trying to avoid touching both the toilet and the sink, which were aggressively close. It was like an airplane bathroom, only slightly larger, and without the sweet release of flight.

The kitchen was a study in contradictions. There was a Cuisinart coffee maker, a bag of Starbucks coffee, and enough glassware to host a wine tasting for twelve—which felt wildly optimistic given that the sink was the size of a salad bowl. There were also two zucchinis in the fridge when we arrived—which the owner promptly retrieved when I mentioned them—but she seemed entirely unconcerned about the forty condiments, a half-empty jar of pickles from the Bush administration, or the freezer that was auditioning for a role as an iceberg. The coffee maker had a delicate layer of dust, like it hadn’t seen action since Obama’s first term, and a cobweb draped over one of the light fixtures that looked so intentional I briefly wondered if the host was going for “haunted farmhouse chic.”

It was as if Bud and Sissy had bought their dream trailer, hosted one brunch, lost interest halfway through mimosas, and immediately listed it on Airbnb—complete with leftover produce and a side of mild emotional damage.

There was even a flat-screen TV in the “master” bedroom with Netflix, which felt out of place in a trailer otherwise powered by good intentions, extension cords, and maybe the ghost of its previous owner. Still, it technically worked—which was more than I could say for the freezer—though it buffered every twenty seconds, which made watching The Goonies unintentionally interactive. Honestly, it felt fitting. Between the cobwebs, the locked closet, and the mysterious noises from the Airstream out back, I half-expected Sloth to burst through the wall yelling “Hey you guys!” at any moment. There was also a functioning fire alarm, which felt reassuring given the amount of incense, candles, and questionable wiring. It’s always nice when a potential crime scene is up to code.

It was weird, yes—but it was our kind of weird. The deck was peaceful, the garden glowed like a scene from a Hallmark movie for vegans, and the hosts were as gracious as they were fascinating. I’ve stayed in worse places (and paid more for them), but few that smelled this strongly of patchouli and suspense.

Still, if that locked closet had creaked open, I wouldn’t have waited for an explanation—I’d have grabbed the zucchini, dodged the cobweb light fixture, and made a break for the deck lights.

P.S. My luggage now smells like patchouli and enlightenment.

I went to the bathroom twenty times before boarding.

Twenty.

By the time they called our group, I was basically running on caffeine fumes and misplaced confidence.

And yet, the moment I buckled my seatbelt and heard the cabin door thunk shut, my bladder perked up like, Oh, you thought we were done?

We hadn’t even left the gate. The flight attendants were still demonstrating how to fasten a seatbelt—as if that’s the skill anyone struggles with—and I was already sweating.

To recap my stellar pre-flight hydration plan: a homemade latte, a six-dollar Peet’s pumpkin latte (because self-control is overrated), a full bottle of water, and half a Gatorade “for balance.” Turns out there’s a difference between staying hydrated and staging a mutiny in your own lower abdomen.

My husband was seated way up front, near First Class, blissfully unaware of the crisis brewing several rows behind him. I was alone, trapped by social decorum and bladder betrayal.

Five minutes ticked by. Then ten. The plane just sat there, mocking me. I tried breathing exercises. I tried mind over matter. I even gave myself a pep talk: You’ve got this. You’re a grown adult. You went twenty times before boarding. You can survive fifteen more minutes.

Narrator: She could not.

At minute fifteen, I did something I had never done in all my years of air travel. I reached up… and pressed the call button.

The little ding sounded like a public confession.

The flight attendant appeared almost immediately, calm and polite but clearly concerned, and asked, “Is this an emergency?”

Ma’am.

If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have hit the button of shame while we were still parked at the gate. I nodded silently—panicked, desperate—and she gave me the green light.

So I unbuckled, climbed over my seatmate with the grace of a sleep-deprived sloth, and made my way to the lavatory. The floor was sticky (always), the soap smelled like knockoff cologne, and I’m convinced someone had been in there in socks. But in that moment, it was paradise.

When I came back, the flight attendant gave me a sympathetic nod—the kind women give each other when they’ve seen things. I buckled in, humbled but relieved.

Thirty minutes into our more-than-two-hour flight, it happened again. The urge. The panic. The bargaining. But this time, I held the line. I clenched my willpower, my dignity, and possibly my urinary tract.

When we finally landed, my husband was waiting at the end of the jetway, smiling like nothing had happened. I walked up to him, said, “Don’t talk to me,” and made a beeline for the nearest restroom.

He followed me there while I breathlessly recounted the whole story—and then I peed. Again.

I’m just going to come right out and say it: I love SEC football. I do. I just don’t understand it. Like… at all.

Holding? Face mask? Pass interference? It’s all just footbally gibberish to me. I mean, I know when we’re losing, and I definitely know what a touchdown is (I’m not a complete idiot), but whatever happens between those six-point moments? Absolutely no earthly idea.

I know there’s math involved—something about downs and yardage and conversions—but that’s always puzzled me because, usually, there’s also alcohol involved. And I don’t know who thought combining math and bourbon was a good idea, but it’s not. Just ask my friend who once showed up to her algebra final with a bourbon and Coke in hand. (Might’ve just been bourbon. Hard to say. Either way: not ideal.)

Anyway, yeah—I have no clue what’s happening on the field. The only real difference I can see is the uniforms and the giant logos on the grass. Sometimes there’s a cowbell or a mascot with a sword or a tree or something (why, Stanford? WHY?), but beyond that, it’s chaos in coordinated outfits.

That said, I do love the atmosphere of an SEC game. The Grove? Heaven. The fans? Unhinged in the best way. The food? Deliciously over-the-top. But the actual game? My back is always killing me in those stands, especially when we’re parked near the student section (aka the Back 9), where they don’t allow seatbacks. It’s the SEC, not medieval torture—can we please upgrade?

Which brings me to today. We’re flying direct to Memphis on American Airlines this time—neither the Biscoff airline (Delta) nor the Stroopwafel airline (United). (I have no idea what American serves, but it better not be pretzels. I’ve been through too much for pretzels.) From there, it’s the usual drive to Oxford.

(I know, I know—you were hoping for a layover in Fort Myers or at least a dash through Atlanta so this post could involve drama, caffeine, and tears. Sadly, not this round. Try again next trip.)

And in case you’re wondering if we’re staying somewhere normal this time, the answer is… absolutely not. This time, we’re glamping. As in, staying in an RV.

Yup. An actual recreational vehicle—with a composting toilet (possibly), a full-size bed (definitely), and a bathroom that could double as an airplane lavatory. Which is why I’ll be making the daily trek to my daughter’s apartment to shower and get ready—right in the middle of her roommates’ pre-game circus. Every morning, every night, before every event, there I’ll be: trying to flat-iron my hair while someone’s blasting Luke Combs and another is applying eyeliner. Meanwhile, I’ll just be trying to find my concealer and my will to live.

Now, I am a grown woman who sleeps in a king-size bed. I will occasionally stoop to a queen if I must. But a full? For two people?? Absolutely not. My husband has already been warned that he will be pulling down that weird little RV dining table thing that all RVs pretend is a “second bedroom.” (It is not. It’s a hostage situation with throw pillows.)

For the record, last time we were in Oxford, we booked an Airbnb that—surprise!—was also occupied by the hosts. Like, while we were there. It wasn’t bad—we had our own room and bathroom (because not having that would’ve been pushing it), and the hosts were truly lovely people. So lovely, in fact, that we’re planning to stay with them again next year. It was just… unexpected. Like booking a dinner reservation and finding out you’re eating in the chef’s actual kitchen. While he’s making meatloaf. In sweatpants.

Anyway, should be a blast. I’ll keep you posted… assuming I have cell service. Or a flushing toilet. Or the ability to sleep diagonally without dislocating something.

This one’s a little dark, but if you’ve followed me for a while, you know that’s just how I process the big stuff—with inappropriate laughter, uncomfortable honesty, and maybe a cocktail.

I saw this floating around online the other day and immediately thought, Yes. This. My exact vibe. (And if you wrote this, you are a genius—please claim your crown.)

When I went through cancer a few years ago (Ewing’s sarcoma, left foot, ten months of chemo—the whole bone-cancer starter kit), I honestly thought I might die. And like a lot of people in that situation, I started thinking about what I’d want at my funeral. You know: songs, obit wording, the food situation. Because if you think I’m letting someone else write my obituary without at least a snarky paragraph, you’re wrong.

This meme is exactly my aesthetic. But why stop at the bouquet toss? What I actually want done with my body before it goes into the ground is to have it stuffed—like, full taxidermy—and strapped to the back of a pickup truck, my arm propped up in a friendly wave as I make one last lap through the neighborhood. (I once asked my surgical oncologist if I could keep my foot and have it stuffed if it had to be removed. He did not think that was a good idea. Apparently human taxidermy is “a biohazard” and “illegal.” Rude.)

A good friend of mine died last year, far too young, and I swear they really did have Costco sandwiches at the reception. Which, to be clear, I’m not judging—it just made me think about how weirdly practical death can be. There’s something darkly comforting about the fact that grief and budget catering can coexist in the same room.

He would’ve laughed at this post—absolutely would’ve. He probably would’ve agreed that funerals should have better snacks, too. And good bourbon—definitely good bourbon. What happened to him was awful, but it’s also exactly why I think about this stuff the way I do. None of us get enough time, so we might as well go out memorably—and if we can find humor in the weirdest, darkest places along the way, even better.

Also: I want a party. Not a “celebration of life” after I’m gone, where everyone cries and eats Costco sandwiches. I want a party before I die. One where I’m still the life of it, preferably with disco lights and cocktails named after my worst decisions. People can still party after I’m gone—go wild—but I want to be there for at least one good send-off while I’m still alive.

So yeah. Bouquet toss at the funeral. Me, waving from a truck like a creepy Mardi Gras float. And a pre-death bash for good measure. Because why not? Life is absurd. Death should be, too.