The disposable underwear arrived. Turns out it looks like tampons.

Also, I’m having doubts.

I know. I’ve been having doubts of one sort or another all along, but these are more practical types of doubts.

Have I mentioned I’m not an RV person? It’s not that I have anything against RVs (but you know we all try very hard not to get stuck behind one on an uphill climb). It’s just that having spent half of my childhood being ferried around in a motorhome because there were so many foster kids it was either that or a bus, I’ve long felt that I spent plenty of time in an RV and don’t need to spend any more.

Also, I’ve never had to actually drive an RV of any size. Let’s just say the thought of steering a 25-foot home on wheels down the highway and into parking spaces fills me with a certain sense of foreboding. I am ambushed by imaginary scenes of my mother looking like a garden gnome with a walker and a bullhorn, waving frantically as she tries to guide my attempts to back a 25-foot behemoth into a parking space.

It’s a very weird flavor of nerve-wracking.