🚗 BEEP BEEP 🚗

The Journey Is Way Harder Than the Destination

Greetings, fellow transportation disasters!

Normal people calculate travel time. We calculate if we have enough energy tokens to make it TO the car. The car that's parked in our own driveway. The answer is frequently no.

Every destination requires the same tactical planning as a military operation, except the Pentagon has better success rates and fewer casualties. Today we're discussing the absolute chaos of traveling ANYWHERE when your body has the reliability of a 1987 Buick held together with duct tape, hope, and spite.

Buckle up. This is gonna be a bumpy ride.

Grocery shopping is a 30-minute errand that requires three days of recovery and an evacuation plan.

The Pre-Trip Calculation:

Can I make it to the store? Unclear. Can I make it INSIDE the store? Doubtful. Can I make it back? Nervous laughter.

The Journey Begins:

Used shopping cart as mobility aid. Cashier asked "finding everything okay?"

Said "FOUND THE FLOOR, THAT'S WHERE I'LL BE SHORTLY."

She looked concerned. I'm beyond concern. I'm in the acceptance phase.

What Actually Happened:

Made it to store. Forgot why I came. Wandered aisles like a lost tourist. Bought rotisserie chicken I don't remember selecting. Went home. Realized I came for milk.

Chicken's judging me from the counter. Chicken knows what I did.

The walk from disabled parking to store entrance? That's my cardio for the week. Haven't even gone inside yet. Already contemplating a nap in the produce section.

Got to checkout. Person ahead has 247 coupons. They're negotiating. I've been standing four minutes. My legs have contacted their union representative. A strike is imminent.

The Return:

Made it to car. Sat there for 20 minutes. Not because I'm on my phone. Because EXISTING is cardio and I'm DONE.

Neighbor walked by, waved. I cannot wave back. Arms are on strike too. I live in this car now. This is my home. Send snacks.

Here's the cosmic joke: Traveling TO the doctor makes you sicker than the original condition.

The Arrival:

Showed up 30 minutes early because anxiety. Used entire energy budget sitting in waiting room chairs designed by people who hate the human spine.

By appointment time? Too exhausted to accurately describe symptoms.

Doctor: "How are you feeling today?"

Me: "I WAS FINE UNTIL I DROVE HERE. The trip here is now my primary medical complaint. Add it to the chart."

The Waiting Room:

Been sitting 15 minutes. Need a doctor. Already AT the doctor. This is a paradox. This is my life now.

Magazine selection: 2019 issues of "Home Decor" and something called "Suburban Fishing Enthusiast." I don't fish. I can barely stand. But I'm reading about bass fishing because I've been here 47 minutes.

The Actual Appointment:

Made it to exam room. Sat on paper-covered table. Paper immediately attacked me. I'm covered in paper. I look like a failed arts and crafts project.

Doctor finally arrives.

Doctor: "On a scale of 1-10, how's your pain?"

Me: "It was a 4 when I left home. It's an 8 after sitting in your waiting room. Your chairs are committing human rights violations."

Doctor writes something down. Probably "difficult patient." I'm not difficult. Your office is difficult. I'm a delight.

Vacation: where you travel somewhere to be exhausted in a DIFFERENT location at GREAT EXPENSE.

Airport Security Theater:

TSA agent staring at my medications: "Are these ALL yours?"

Me: "No, I'm running a mobile pharmacy. Yes they're mine. I have more in checked luggage. And my purse. I'm basically a pharmacy with legs that work poorly."

Agent calls supervisor. I'm a medical curiosity. I've been here 20 minutes. Haven't even gotten through security. This is going well.

The Terminal Walk:

Airport distances should be illegal. Gate is 47 miles from security. WHO designed this? WHO approved this?

Requested wheelchair assistance. Beautiful service until they START RUNNING. Ma'am, I have a neurological condition, not a need for SPEED. This is a MEDICAL TRANSPORT not the Indy 500.

The Flight:

Airplane seats designed by people whose bodies cooperate with physics. My body is actively protesting physics.

Seatmate asked if I'm okay. Said "DEFINE OKAY."

They moved seats.

The Hotel:

Hotel bed triggered symptoms I forgot I had. Slept terribly. Woke up worse than before vacation.

Called front desk: "Can I get different pillows?"

Brought me 47 different pillow options. Tried them all. They're all wrong. My body has rejected pillows as a concept.

Could've done this at home FOR FREE.

The trip home is ALWAYS worse than the outbound journey. Used all energy at the destination. Return trip is survival mode powered by spite.

The Final Stretch:

Made it to driveway. Cannot exit car. Sitting here. Been 20 minutes.

Neighbor's getting mail. Waving. I cannot wave. Arms have resigned. This is my life.

Finally made it inside. Got six feet. Now floor-bound.

Floor is comfortable. Floor is home. Floor understands me. Floor doesn't judge.

Spouse: "How was the trip?"

Me, from floor: "I'M NEVER LEAVING AGAIN. GROCERIES GET DELIVERED NOW. DOCTOR DOES HOUSE CALLS. WE LIVE HERE FOREVER."

Spouse: "You say that every time."

Me: "THIS TIME I MEAN IT."

(Narrator: She did not mean it. She went to the store three days later. The cycle continues.)

🚗 Until Next Time 🚗

May your parking spots be close, your energy reserves be adequate, and your pharmacies actually have your prescriptions ready.

Stay rare, stay ridiculous, and stay home when possible.

— The Rarely Serious Team

Disclaimer: We're not medical professionals. We're barely transportation professionals. We're just people with neurological conditions trying to make it to the mailbox without needing a three-day recovery period. Consult actual doctors for actual medical advice. Side effects of reading this newsletter may include: relating too hard, laughing inappropriately, and canceling all plans forever.