When I was solo on the road, things seemed to just happen to me.
I had lots of stories to tell and my life felt exciting.
The time my trailer fell off my car in Denver and some boy scouts saved the day.
The twenty-somethings camping out of their limo who offered me whiskey and then later got busted by the rangers.
The family who adopted me on my birthday and took me out to dinner (only to have dinner abruptly end when the drunk adult son starting raging about his bitch of an ex-girlfriend who aborted his child).
Now that I’m married and traveling, I don’t create these types of stories anymore because my need for other humans has changed. The connection I was always seeking from other people is now coming from my husband.
I’d be lying if I didn’t have a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I had more fun when I was solo. That I’m doing it wrong now.
For the longest time, I believed that voice because it seemed true. I liked having outlandish stories to tell. But I can see now that seeking out those types of experiences were probably ways for me to avoid feeling lonely and bored.
How I live my life now isn’t wrong, I’ve just replaced the big moments by quieter moments.
The long walks on the beach at sunset.
Singing silly songs while dancing with our dog in the motorhome.
Squealing when we find another Little Free Library in a town.
These aren’t really the stories I share with other people, but they mean something to me.
They are a part of a life I want to live forever, not for a few hot minutes.