Camper Shell Brings Sense of Security

A few days ago, my mother asked me what I am going to do when I leave Cal State in May. I had been going along, fairly satisfied with the New Agey thought that something miraculous would occur between now and spring, and I would be shown a clear, straight path to happiness, love, and abundance. But moms have a way of throwing a wrench into such thinking.

Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?

I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.

I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?

So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.

Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.

Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.

It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.

I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.