Road Trip Back

Should you ever desire to feel like a kid again, you don't need to have a midlife crisis and bungie jump or skydive or climb all the 14,000 foot mountains in Colorado. You just need to take an 1,800 mile road trip with your parents.

I was 4 days into my 6-day journey across the nation with Mom and Dad before it occurred to me that I wasn't cursing. If you know me, you know I have a potty mouth. I swear like a sailor. I have tried many strategies to break this filthy habit - or at least, cut back to half a pack a day - to no avail. The best I could do was not swear in front of my students, their parents, or the principal at my school.  It's disturbing how significant an accomplishment this is.

My parents are not prudes. They cuss sometimes, they do. I just don't think I've heard either one of them say sh%# or f*+k or a#%*=le. My top three, if the truth be told.

One thousand miles and I hadn't said the f-word in four days. Even when I was behind the wheel. Not only that, my speech was peppered with words like dangit and shoot. I was no longer a crusty old foul-mouthed codger! I was sweet and prim and - dare I say - girlish in my manner!

This is how she looks at me.

Then my mom insisted on paying for everything. It didn't matter that, of the three of us, I'm the only one gainfully employed. "I don't want you to spend your hard-earned money," my sweet mother said every time I whipped out my credit card. I'm pretty sure her money was hard-earned, too. Still. I'll never not be her little girl.

Finally, there's this: I'm pretty sure it's not just my folks who believe, no matter how many years their child has been driving, said child just left the DMV with her learner's permit.  Mine appear to have forgotten that I lived in San Francisco for seven years, where I became an expert parallel parker. Passengers actually admire my work, like an art form.

Never have I felt more vigorously youthful than on Beale Street in Memphis, where I spotted a slightly cozy space in which to squeeze my parents' new Kia Sorento. They both advised me -

I'm the 47-year-old teenager on the right.

simultaneously - how to get into the spot. Since I was unresponsive to their harmonizing (because it took all the will power I had to refrain from cursing), my dad got out of the car to direct me with complicated hand signals.

Thirty-two years shaved off, just that easily. I felt 15 again. Right back where the troublesome fledgling adulthood began. Hmmmm... Does anyone know where I can buy a pack of clove cigarettes and get my hair dyed pink and green? Because I am ready to bust out the curse words and

PAR-Tay!