Before I left to the Middle of Nowhere I told everyone I was going to a “resort.” I like to think positively about places that use the moon as streetlights and yield signs instead of stop signs. I didn’t really think much of coming to a small town, but I should really make it clear that “small town” to me is about the size of my hometown Layton, complete with a Macy’s, Crown Burger, and three movie theaters. This place? The only restaurant mentioned on the motel’s attraction listing is Taco Maker.

The size of this city doesn’t actually bother me…neither does the fact that the court reporter showed up in a motor home. But being away from SML makes me fidgety and anxious. It’s insane to say that, because SML generally elbows me during the nights, doesn’t cook and more often than not I’m tripping over his shoes. Oddly enough, those are the exact things I find myself missing.

Most of my anxiety started this morning after I discovered that I forgot to bring my hair things. That fact alone is enough to stop my world from turning, so it’s amazing that I even left the motel room. Without my things, my hair resembles a mix between a dandelion and those long strands of plastic with balls of light on their tips you sometimes see stuck inside Christmas trees.

Soon after I left the motel with my golden fro, I also discovered that pieces of my car break off and drag against the asphalt if I go over sixty miles per hour. It took me awhile to figure that one out and I now feel completely reaffirmed in my decision to take back-roads throughout the city instead of the freeway. My iPhone saved the day in this case, not because of the great AT&T coverage, but because the phone was displaying the wrong time zone and I was actually an hour early.

At the end of these kinds of days, I just really need an SML hug and a big slice of cheesecake.

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