Keep On Truckin'

I drove a 26 foot truck. I am officially a badass. And about as far from my Connecticut upbringing as one could possibly be. Unless, of course, I later decide to park the truck at a stripclub, do a line of coke, and hit up amateur night. But somehow I don't see that happening.

Saturdays are typically "drive days." Those seem like two harmless little words, but what it really means is 9 plus hours in a truck. Gaaaah. We went from North Carolina to Ohio, then stopped at a kickass truckstop in Ohio: Deb's Diner. It was a tiny little bar with seasonal glitter pumpkin decor and plaid tablecloths, featuring two dollar jello shots, a patio with inflatable palm trees, and a surprisingly delicious chicken fajita salad. Yours truly drove the truck out of Debs, out of Ohio, and through Indiana: the crossroads of America. And nobody died! Nobody even came close to dying! I'll be honest: I don't really like driving the truck very much AT ALL. That being said, it wasn't nearly as bad as I feared. And I totally did it. The truck is a tricky proposition, it takes FOREVER to accelarate, and is capped at 65, which means you must literally keep the pedal to the floor the entire time, unless of course you have to stop, in which case you're sort of fucked, because it also takes forever to stop.

Nine hours later, we made it to our weekend destination: Elgin, Illinois. There is not a lot to do here. I went to the Spring Hill Mall three (yes, three) times. I spent a wonderful sunday afternoon in the Starbucks Cafe in the Barnes and Noble in the mall. If you close your eyes and sip your caramel steamer, you can pretend you're in New York. Or at least Westport, Connecticut.