I pine for room, room to stretch out, a place to toss my shoes, a
counter to pile up dirty dishes on.
For the past three weeks, we've lived in 24 feet that grant us no
space for laziness. If we drop our shoes by the door, we trip over
them coming and going. Abandoned cups on the counter crowd out dinner preparations.
And if all four of us (me, my husband and our two dogs) mill about
concurrently, it's a traffic jam.
I see these huge, gas-guzzling, road-hogging monster motor homes
waddle into the Padre Island National Seashore campground and am envious. I accept all invitations to "come on inside!" And I sprawl on their couches. I miss our couch. I stand and stare at their beds, accompanied by honest-to-goodness
bedside tables for lamps, books, eye glasses, coffee cups, snack
plates. I sigh.
And then I meet Leona and John, a very happy and content couple from Regina, Saskatchewan, who vacation in an egg, a 14-foot fiberglass egg-shaped motor home called a Triple E Surfside (see the pic).
It dates back to 1977, and is so cute. It's dear. It's tiny. One good
shove and it'll topple.
I look inside and I feel so much better about our own 24 feet. The egg
has no running water; we even have a shower. There is no refrigerator;
ours comes with a good-sized freezer. There is no bed (their dinette
folds down into a bed); our bed doesn't fold out, unfold or fold in.
It's a stationary full-sized bed.
OK. Lesson learned. I'll continue to covet my neighbor's couch because
I miss my couch. But after peeking inside the egg, I'm pretty thankful
for the glorious 24 feet of everything else we have.