The trees were a blur as I sat gazing out the tinted glass at the scenery surrounding me. The soft hum of 80s on the 8 pulsated, providing the gentle beat of the journey from pine trees to palm trees, from rain clouds to sunny skies. At least this is the description I had hoped to write as the introduction to my week of solace at the beach. Instead, my three-hundred and thirty-mile trip went a little something like this.

When the clock struck midnight, four work-weary humans piled into the car, anxious to finally have a week without the constant monotonous routine of work, eat, sleep, repeat. I’m generally the type of person who falls into a blissful slumber as soon as I pop a motion sickness pill and feel the rocking motion of the car against the open highway. Minutes from a REM cycle and swaddled in the comfiest blanket I own, Mother Nature decided to stick it to me with an obscene throbbing in my abdomen.

You see, Mother Nature didn’t care that this was my one week off the entire summer; she could care less that I wasn’t scheduled for intense cramping for at least a few more days. She was coming early, and there was no stopping her.

A constant string of cramps began rolling in like the tide on a red flag day (pun intended), and I was a miserable old lady on the back seat complaining the entire trip. After a few hours on the road, I noticed my younger brother snoozing to my left, my parents talking in the front seat, and I was struggling to find a comfortable position. For those of you who have never had the privilege of feeling a PMS cramp, let me explain why this was the most painful car ride of my life.

In scientific terms, a cramp is a muscle contraction. In Alex terms, a cramp is like getting kicked repeatedly in the lower abdomen by a pint-sized soccer player – forceful enough to leave residual pain without the mark of a bruise. The pain was so intense that the only comfortable position I could find looked a little something like an infant lying on its back in a playpen playing with its tiny, tiny toes. In fact, I was lying on my back across the bucket seat with my legs pressed against the door and my feet flush against the roof of the car. My parents thought I was insane, but at the time, the feeling was mutual because as I sat writhing in pain, they were having a karaoke jam session to 80s music at 2 a.m. at a decibel only appropriate at a high school reunion or a wedding reception. It was horrible.

However, we finally arrived, and the next few days were just what I had expected: numerous hours tanning on the beach with a Hardy novel in hand and the salty air swirling through my hair. I did manage to get a little sunburn; it wouldn’t be a family vacation if I didn’t leave looking like a lobster. But the real kicker to this trip is a three-part extravaganza, and while they are not related, they accurately capture what a trip with my family is like no matter where we go.

Part 1

It was about the third night, and I was ready to wash the ocean spray and sand away to reveal the tan I hoped I’d have. I was jamming out, like I usually do, letting the shampoo suds slip through my hair, when I heard a loud bang, a crack, and felt a searing pain in my left foot. After a long string of expletives, I looked down to see the culprit – a jumbo-sized bottle of conditioner – and saw what used to be my tiny foot. It now looked like a moldy piece of meat the size of a golf ball sitting on top of my foot. I thought it was broken; now wouldn’t that be a story to tell? My foot is not broken, but it looks half-dead and barely fits in my shoes, so there’s that.

Part 2

With a gimpy foot and a flaming sunburn, I emerged from beneath the warm cocoon of my sheets and readied myself for a trip to the Cape Henry Lighthouse at the Fort Story military base. We all piled into the car once again and spent about an hour in the car before we even got on the base. Let me explain.

To start, the car only had about 21 miles left on it before we’d be stranded on the strip with no gas. Therefore, it was necessary to find a gas station, which is almost impossible with my family, it seems. You see, we don’t like to plan out our trips, small or large. Instead, we like to hop in the car, throw caution to the wind, and just expect that the hand of God will reach down and navigate our car to the destination without hazard.

Finally, we refueled, and we were on our way to the lighthouse. We reached the guard at the gate, and he asked us each for our IDs. We each pulled out our inaccurate photos from at least a few years ago, and then my mother says, “Oh, I don’t have my ID.” The guard kindly explained that to get on the base, everyone must have some sort of photo identification, and unfortunately, we would have to be turned around. The kind man helped us turn around, and we made the lengthy trip back to the hotel so that my mother could retrieve her license.

As we were sitting in the car, my dad decided to look at the car’s registration and noticed that it was out of date. So now we had to find a way to print out the most current registration for the car because that was also a necessary document for passage onto the base. We went to a Walmart first, and that was a disaster and a half, and we left with no registration. The next stop was a FedEx store, and my mother emerged waving the registration high. We were on our way once again.

Upon arrival at the military base for the second time, we waited in line for a solid fifteen minutes. We eventually passed the identification test and were moved along to the next station where more guards would search our car. In short, we didn’t pass this stage because I forgot that I left my pepper spray in my purse. Needless to say, we were turned around once again, and we didn’t tempt fate with a third try. Instead, we went to Outback and called it a day.

Part 3

The final installment of this three-part disastrous extravaganza is the most recent and most important part of the trilogy. At the beginning of this tale, I mentioned that only four work-weary humans entered the car at the start of the trip. That is because my lovely sister could not leave until later in the week because she was finishing up her CNA classes. She left our hometown around noon and did not arrive at the beach until 11 p.m.

I know what you’re all thinking … “Alex, Virginia Beach isn’t that far from where you live; it’s like six hours. Why did it take her so long?” Well ladies and gents, it took my sister eleven hours to reach the beach because Apple maps did her dirty. This automated map system took her all over God’s creation on every toll road imaginable. She racked up quite the total in EZ pass fines because at one point the GPS on Apple maps took her all the way to the coast of Maryland, she was in Delaware, she was near Philadelphia. At one point she was even going north and seeing signs for New York.

My parents spent most of the day trying to navigate a directionally challenged girl to the beach from the beach. It was such a disaster; however, I can’t even say I’m shocked about it because at this point, I expect it.

This has been the most entertaining trip I’ve had in quite a long time. I’ve laughed and laughed, and of course I got a blog out of the constant string of disasters. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have it any other way – the battle of coffee against impending doom is just the balance I need to keep this site fresh, but most importantly, your weekly dose of the true life of young adulthood.