There are many wonderful things about solo road trips.
You get to listen to Sheryl Crow very, very loudly, and no one can make fun of how (truly, awfully, terribly) you sing “Soak Up The Sun” (which is, as an aside, the best road trip song EVER). You get to stop at exactly the fast-food restaurant you want to stop at exactly when you want to stop at it, and when you eat your entire In ‘N’ Out burger (“protein style” because of this situation) in three elephantine bites, sending mayo-y lettuce bits flying all over the place, there is no one to gaze upon you in mild disgust.
You can pull over to the side of the road and angle the car so the sun is shining in and recline the front seat all the way back and take a nap if you want to.
And you can wear exactly what you want to wear, even if what you want to wear is a chiffon Betsey Johnson wrap-around cutoff blouse that your mother bought in 1998 and that you recently snagged from her closet despite your strong suspicion that a cutoff top is not something you should be wearing in public, like ever. Because on a road trip, that top gets seen only by you and some random gas station guys who definitely do not care. (And, okay, the Internet in this particular case, but let’s just ignore that for the time being.)
Other things I enjoy wearing on road trips:
- Kendrick’s oldest and most comfortable college shirts, preferably the ones with stains (because they are the best);
- Bathing suits, because a moon roof presents a nice opportunity for a tan;
- No socks, ever;
- A purple silk dress that I once wore to a wedding but that I now realize was intended to be a beach cover-up or perhaps a tank top, because holy short (oops);
- Cowboy boots, obviously.
And here are a whole bunch of tops that, once again, I would never ever everrrrr wear in actual public, but would TOTALLY be into wearing while driving down the PCH and blasting some Sublime.