Mr. Excuses, my traveling companion, would be adventure’s worst enemy. Not a superhero, of course, unless you think that avoiding happiness is a superpower. I’ve called him Mr., but his real name is Dave. After five journeys together, I’ll make excuses if getting stuck at a petrol station in Kentucky because I thought I packed the map is part of the survival.
When you travel with Mr. Excuses, your blood pressure rises and your expectations are lowered. Trying to arrange a vacation with him is like attempting to plan lunch with an evasive, unpredictable squirrel that occasionally contains acorns.
We once made the decision to camp in the Smoky Mountains. I was ecstatic. The stars, the fresh air, and hopefully non-intrusive bears. However, the night before, Mr. Excuses texted me to say that I couldn’t go until my asthmatic cat’s spiritual healer gave her permission. The cat doesn’t exist, spoiler alert. The healer doesn’t either. Metaphysical pet care, however, is indisputable.
My socks didn’t match the intensity of this excursion, so he arrived two hours late when we finally started the road. The vitality? We were driving a 2008 Honda Civic with a broken speaker at seven in the morning.
The broad road should quiet his craziness, right? Not at all. In just the first hour, he had asserted:
- He forgot his sunglasses ( Light sensitivity it s real. )
- The GPS gave him motion sickness ( Maps just know too much. )
- We should stop for authentic local pastries, which, in central Alabama, turned out to be stale gas station donuts and regret.
Hotels? Mr. Excuses doesn’t work in lodging. Too many vibes have slept in the bedding. He therefore demands Airbnb. The one he chose in Nashville was a pretty cardboard box outside a rustic-smelling barbecue restaurant. That’s called eau de brisket and raccoon in French, I think.
It’s a performance art piece to eat with him. He creates a new dietary limitation at each eatery. Lactose intolerant by Tuesday, fruit phobic by Wednesday, and gluten-free on Monday. At one seafood restaurant, he insisted on ordering only steam. With the spirit of shrimp, but without the dedication.
Nevertheless, I have to say that despite all the delays, detours, and really spiritual animals, the man is amusing. When Mr. Excuses is around, life is a little more cheerful, even though he is a logistical nightmare wrapped in a riddle and soaked in confusion. He infuses each schedule with a hint of ridiculousness. Furthermore, in high-stakes diplomacy, his capacity to justify anything may be used as a weapon. or at the at least, as a way to avoid jury duty.
Would I go with him again, then? Of course. As long as I drive, organize the trip, oversee the finances, transport both of our bags, and pack emergency doughnuts. Because Mr. Excuses would probably claim citrus sensitivity and insist that you swap the lemons for mangoes when the universe delivers you lemons.
Let’s avoid being Mr. Excuses, since we are all familiar with him.
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