Figuring It Out

I’m at the campground, sans reception, sans discussion, conversation, YouTube, “Los Angeles Times”, CNN, here by my lonesome, figuring it out by-my-lonesome, not-so-lonesome self.

67, close to 68, in the sun, in the gale force winds, in the yesterday afternoon’s Vineyard Drive Brecon Wine Club pick up party, Life IZ Good, aura. 

No reception. 

Do you understand what that means? Actually? I actually have to make an effort, get in my apartment-on-wheels, pack-up/secure camp stuff, get in the van, drive to the Library, log in, wait, and wait and wait, and voila, can send a voice mail, post recent blog entry, connect with My Other Life. 

It’s crazy how we take access to the Internet, being pertinent, for granted. We expect snap-at-your-fingertips service. And when we don’t have it, we get all edgy.

But I’m kinda digging it.

I love checking out, not being available, not relevant, disappearing from the world. It’s like floating on a raft, in the sun, in the tropical breezes, cruising and being A-Okay. 

What did you do today? someone from the “outside” will ask.

I read.

I thought about taking a nap. 

I dreaded going to town, but I did, so I can share life in the not-so-big-city with you.

So you know.

That I’m OK.

I’m more than OK.

Which is so strange. Because I used to be such a social creature and now, I’m a sedentary human-woman completely content being neutral.

Yesterday, there were gale force winds where I’m residing. The pass, Highway 41, experienced wind gusts up to 30 mph. I worried and worried, planned and planned, fearing my tall Sprinter would fall into the valley on my way “home” to the beach valley where I’ll continue to reside for a few more days.

Let me set the stage: The sun is out. The wind is windy. I’m in the shade. I’m typing on my MacBook Pro. I’ve had a quarter of the sparkling wine sitting in my van’s fridge from a week ago, listening to some kind of accordion, mariachi-type music from a group of vintage Airstream campers a couple of sites away.  

Did you know people have friends? People my age and younger socialize, have fun, party? They hang out, drink, play some kind of rollicking, celebrating, group-socializing tossing games together. Hippish. Complimentary. Positive. Yummy food wafting gloriousness. Biking. Celebrating, did I say celebrating? 

And then there’s me. Breakfast-still-full, despite the loads of groceries I have in Miss Bonnie Doon, my absolutely amazing, favorite child apartment-on-wheels. She loves me no matter what, and vice versa. She’s a bit bug-dirty right now, but stands tall, a vision to be admired as I figure things out.

Sewer Talk.

Let me get real, as in shit real. 

Perhaps the main reason I resisted getting a Class B RV, besides the ridiculous cost, was the damn black tank. Yucky. Yucky. Yucky. But after a year dumping my shit into black holes of grossness, what used to gross me out no longer does.

Shit, besides being shit, is also a metaphor.

Case in point:

Yesterday, on my way home in the gale force winds along Highway 41, somewhere along the way, my sewer hose fell off. I heard a rattling, but figured it was a gust of scary wind rattling something outside the van. I confess, I was a wee bit tipsy given the wine club pick-up party. But I was responsiblish. I waited two hours after the tasting, drank lots of water, and was prepared to pull over if I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. There was no swerving, no, I’m not safe feeling. I would NEVER get behind the wheel if I felt for a second it was dangerous To make sure I was sober, I took a breathalyzer-type test I ordered from Amazon proving I was good to go.

I waited-out the wind, driving across the pass about 7:30 p.m. when it looked like the winds had died down, and when I arrived at the campground the sun had set and I was excited about finishing “Schitt’s Creek” so I could return the DVD set to the Library on Saturday. But the rattling. The rattling. When I got to my campsite, I jumped outside and looked at the sewer caps, which were off, dragging, apparently, along the highway. Somewhere along the line, my hose fell off. But not the cap.

The couple I bought my van from had extra hoses, which was fantastic. But the cap that came off, couldn’t be secured. Rather than resorting to duct tape to hold it in place, I decided to decipher what the actual problem was. After about 30 minutes trying various methods to secure the cap in place, I eventually figured it out.

When the cap scraped along the highway, it gouged out the rim. It was subtle, but just enough damage was caused that it re-shaped the cap making it impossible to fit into the original fitting. 

My instinct was, “Help someone!”

Instead, I channeled my favorite handiman and uttered in my cloud thought bubble, “What would Ken do?”

After a few minutes I realized I needed some sort of a grinder, which I’d have to buy at the local hardware store. But instead, I channeled my cave woman instincts, found a rough rock, and ground out the rough groove. Voila! The cap now fits!

You should have seen me, being at one with the very same sewer system I once dreaded. On the pavement, looking into the sewage abyss. I was at one with the shit hole. 

I can’t tell you my delight: I’m figuring it out. It’s thrilling. And it’s stinky. And I wish it was easier. Yet, the struggle is real and important because it gets me to a place of knowledge and acceptance, exuberance, and peace. 

Shit happens. And senior citizen camper woman is figuring it out.