The Agony of Anticipation and Car Trunks

As often happens, I was up five minutes before the alarm.  Ever since I can remember, I have great anticipation before a trip.  I  had virtually everything packed the day before.  My head was restless on the pillow; it had been a full day with no stops.  My mind needed to catch up, actually slow down to meet my resting body.  My mind is a distant sprinter that has to be coaxed to sit still.  What did I hope to get from this trip?  What was at stake? Could I set an intention.  I brushed the question aside, not because they weren’t good, but because I need to sleep.  I could turn to them on the road--and I knew that I would be able to fall asleep, but likely anticipation would wake me.

Anticipation of adventure keeps my boredom at bay. I remember once when we lived in Charleston, my family was taking a road trip to Edisto Beach. I must have been six or seven.  I remember lugging the bags to help my mom pack the car.  We were preparing everything so that when my dad came home, we could hop on the road.  My sister was always one who could entertain herself, but I grew bored easily. So when we finished and my mom said he would be home in fifteen minutes to half an hour and I thought that was forever.  I paced the floors and practically created new holes in the threadbare carpeting in the living room.  Every five minutes I ask if it was time yet, but once we reached time, my father was nowhere in sight.  And as the time ticked away, it was as if someone was literally torturing me like time passing was like a cord attaching itself to each limb and pulling tauter being drawn and quartered.

Finally, I succumbed to grumpy disappointment.  Hours later when he came home, the anticipation wound up again like a renewed puppy as I ran around the house forcing the irritated conversation between my parents to resolve quickly.  As my dad opened the trunk to the station wagon, to put in one more thing, I was so eager to go and proud that my arm could reach as high as the open trunk door that I grasped it and slammed it shut.  That was one of the first memorable times I heard my father curse as the corner of the trunk made contact with his forehead.  Blood seeped onto the cement.  This of course delayed the trip further.  The shock of it, the yelling, the witnessing of my father in pain was a big swirl of muck. Sick to my stomach, I felt so much shame at what I had done and that I still wanted to get going. I offered a meek apology, knowing not to ask “are we still going.”  My parents determined no stitches were needed and once bandaged we made our way.