When the service truck–courtesy of a AAA membership I had fortuitously purchased just days before my trip–pulled up to my shitshow, I thought relief was at hand. Here was a qualified professional who was savvy to the secret lore of fixing flats, and what’s more, he had arrived a full 20 minutes before his scheduled time, likely spurred by my subtle questions to the dispatcher about best practices for avoiding death from the cold and traffic.
A man who bore a striking resemblance to Nick Nolte emerged from the truck and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, set about his work, seemingly unfazed by the rush of cars no more than a few feet away. In any other situation, the process would’ve been fascinating to watch, except I wasn’t simply an observer here. I was the unfortunate schmuck on the side of the highway this time, the kind whom you drive by quickly with a mix of empathy and schadenfreude. Since the trunk had to be unloaded to get to the spare, the scene was decidedly wretched, with my belongings splayed all over the median and bathed under the pulsating light of my hazards.
After he had finished swapping tires, we shook, and then I tested out the car, only to hear a grinding noise. Driven by either southern hospitality or the cash tip, the Nolte of Birmingham crawled back under my car to diagnose, but there’s only so much you can illuminate with an undersized headlamp. We backed the car up, rolled it forward, turned the steering wheel both ways, and then repeated the process a few times, but in the end, the tire itself was deemed fine, and we parted ways–back to home for him, I presumed, and for me, the most harrowing part of the night.
I knew two things about Alabama, prior to embarking on my great car-journey four weeks ago. First, there is a song about it, indeed glorifying the state itself, which I heard live at a slightly terrifying concert featuring Lynyrd Skynyrd back in ought-nine. Second, Cheshire warned me about dying there, either by way of buckshot or lamppost, but still I persisted, opting for the southern route to Texas because, well, reasons.
They were good reasons, too, I assure you. I had planned on taking the northern passage through Tennessee and Arkansas, until ice and the cold forced me to reconsider. Navigating South Carolina and Atlanta was easy enough, and I crossed into Alabama without incident. Then evening hit. And then I hit–the curb, specifically, when I was searching for a hotel in the dark. I remember hoping beyond reason that my tire was made of sterner stuff and would roll away from the mishap unscathed. No such luck, unfortunately, because in seconds the loud, telltale groan of a flat filled the cabin.
It was shortly after 9 PM, cars whizzing by me, and temperature rapidly dropping. Certainly I knew it was warmer than Tennessee, and I would’ve been thankful for this realization, were it not for the fact that it was still pretty fuckin’ cold, in rough Fahrenheit terms. “This,” I thought to myself, “has got to be the lowest point of my trip.” I was wrong! So very, utterly wrong.
The very first thing I did, the afternoon I moved into my new apartment, was find my lights. Floor lamps, desk lamps, tall, short, clay, steel–it made no difference. The one thing I had to accomplish before nightfall was dig through the sea of garbage bags, hastily assembled the night prior to mask the vast amounts of material wealth weighing down my aging sedan, and collect all the shades, harps, and bulbs I’d need to illuminate the place. Why was this so crucial? Well, there’s the whole “tripping over stuff in darkness” aspect I generally try to avoid, but more importantly, there’s something about a well-lit place a soul simply craves, you know?
I’m all unpacked now, so it’s onto the next goal, wherein I renovate my other temple, otherwise known as this husk of flesh I inhabit on a daily basis. In a way, my first milestone isn’t all that different: I need to turn on the proverbial lights. Writing–this, us–helps clear the cobwebs. During my last few weeks in Charlotte, too, I weaned myself off Zyrtec, and it feels like I’ve reclaimed my mind. It’s that significant. The regular intake was for allergies and such, but they are a toll I gladly pay now to not feel like shit.
This revelation simply highlighted the importance of what we eat. For food, you may remember my commitment to a paleo-free lifestyle. But it’s not just paleo. The core challenge is the healthy variant of any dish tends to materialize as a sad, sad shadow of the original entree. Take something like an enchilada from Amy’s, for instance. It’s, like, somebody took the idea of an enchilada, and then cast it into the depths of the Pit of Disappointment, whereupon it struck every single branch of the Super Gross Tree before rolling to an underwhelming stop in the Field of Tortured Metaphors.
There are instances, though, where taste manages to coexist with health, and these rare intersections are where I’ll make my stand. Organic bacon and eggs? Sold, and it happens to be paleo. Fruit? Nature’s candy. Earlier this week, I tried einkorn for the first time, in the form of two delicious cookies baked by Earth Chick, and I’m a believer now. Factory spaghetti is going straight in the trash and being replaced with einkorn pasta. What you ingest is only part of the story, though. Since I don’t have the metabolism of my 20s anymore, I will likely have to use the 24-hour fitness center at the clubhouse. There is an elliptical machine in there! I’ve been telling people I’m going to “hop on [it],” but the key piece I’ve been omitting is I don’t plan on actually pressing the “on” button.