Acting On Impulse

Long Desert Road to Las Vegas?

Does stopping to help a stranded driver count? Hmmm, I know, the clock is ticking... 

OK! I finally remembered what was probably the most impulsive thing I have done. Back in about 1986 or so, life was very stressful. What with working full time, and taking care of my late husband while he was hopefully recovering from the lingering results of being T-Boned in an accident, and with his having to that point, undiagnosed brain damage from the wreck, and the fact that he was certainly doing many thing out of character for him, I was about at my wits end. 


He had physically recovered from two back surgeries, and twelve shock therapy treatments enough that he was able to drive again, even traveling alone to Mexico City, without giving me more than a half-hour notice that he was leaving for at least a month. I was really at my breaking point.  I knew he was up to something, but he was very secretive about anything and everything he was doing (also out of character). Mind you, we had been married for more than twenty-three years, and these things were not his usual behavior.  He had taken over things that I usually did, such as paying all our bills, removing all, or practically all our funds from our checking account, and still failing to pay the bills. He even started writing bad checks. 

Anyway, back to my impulsive thing: It was a Friday late afternoon, and when I got home from work, I was really ready to snap. No one was home, so I threw a few changes of clothes in a bag, got in my 1982 white Chevrolet Camero Berlinetta, and headed for Los Vegas. I had never before even been there.  I just needed a break, and to see something new and different. I left my husband a note, saying I would be back in a few days, stopped off at the bank with my check, deposited enough to pay the bills coming due, and took the rest in cash, and headed out of town. 

"These boots were made for walking,"

                                                   
I inserted my favorite tape into the cassette player, (there were no CDs at that time) and listened to Loretta Lynn, singing her heart out. After a while, I began singing along with her, "These Boots Were Made for Walking." 

I overnighted in a motel along the way, since I was not sure of the road conditions, and did not think it wise to drive late at night, on the open road between southern California and Los Vegas, especially since I was alone, after all. I stayed in Vegas for two days, and stopped along the way in a little town, stopping in a little jewelry store where they had Black Hills Gold. That place was so inviting, that I was tempted to just stay there. Still, I knew I had responsibilities, and a position of responsibility at work, so I finally headed home, via back roads, instead of driving home the way I had used to get to Las Vegas. 

It was relaxing to drive through wide open, lightly traveled desert highways that stretched out in front of me.  The road seemed never-ending. With my windows open, no AC running, it was just the hot wind blowing in, and Loretta and me singing for mile after mile  along the open road. 

Finally, I headed home, at least feeling somewhat better, having done something to clear out the cobwebs, and relieve some of the stress. Now, I had been taking in the sights someplace different than just the freeway between home and work.  Returning home meant to encounter heaven only knew what he had gotten into while I was gone.  Back to work, and back to worrying about things he might get into.  Things got worse before they got better.