Travel

Travel in my childhood meant driving for three days to Florida. After a summer of daily gymnastics my legs went into spasms of agony. My mother screamed at me "I'm driving 90 miles an hour, quiet down" All of us kids were jammed into the big ugly brown Ford station wagon with the AC on full blast and a cooler of cheese to nibble on between stops. My mother drove 90 MPH on the highway burning rubber all the way. We were drugged with Dramamine, out cold for three days "You get car sick," "I do?" I realize now that she just wanted a quiet honeymoon vacation to spend with my dad. When we arrived I was singled out and made to drink glasses of Metamucil mixed in orange juice because I hadn't pooped of course.
My husband says "No wonder you hate to travel."