I have ailed from motion sickness since childhood. Our Dad had to stop the car on road trips so I could take deep breaths and/or vomit. Our Mom kept a “Promise Can” in the car on those trips that I could heave into. Don’t confuse the word “promise” with a “promise ring”. The can was an empty ice cream container that served like an air sick bag. My siblings sandwiched me in the backseat so they could have the window seats, just in case. I sat with my feet resting on top of the drive shaft hump, in the middle of the back seat, being jostled between two disagreeable siblings. Family car trips in sedans don’t evoke happy memories.

I avoided roller coasters, rocking boats and fast rides.

I almost ruined my friend Barb’s 12th birthday party. Her parents had taken a bunch of kids to Farrell’s Old Fashion Ice Cream Parlor to celebrate. We all piled into their station wagon. I sat in the back of the tailgate reserved for cargo on the ride home. Lenient seat belt laws back then. Her Dad announced we would drop off the kids that lived in Laurel Canyon first. I felt woozy and hurled into my souvenir Farrell’s birthday hat. Kids screamed. Barb’s parents were nice and handled it well. I really wanted to save the hat as a souvenir and to show my parents who had never been to Farrell’s. When Barb invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I declined. I didn’t want to ruin two celebrations in a row. Though I would’ve loved to experience a Bat Mitzvah and celebrate her.

Road trips with Car Guy are often, regular, and anticipated. We debrief and process life in the car. We have made many car memories. Not once have I been sick with him behind the wheel. When we’ve driven up a mountain or on a twisty road, he checks to make sure I’m OK. Chalk it up to one of those ironies of life that are a welcome wonder.