home·bod·y
/ˈhōmˌbädē/
noun
INFORMAL•NORTH AMERICAN
a person who likes to stay at home, especially one who is perceived as unadventurous.
"since his marriage, Brett has become a homebody"
On our first two road trips, documented in Open Road: a Midlife Memoir of Travel through the National Parks, I became deeply weary and existentially anxious with all of the transitions in and out of tents, lodges, campsites, vans and motels.
I’m a homebody. Denying it made travel more unpleasant in the end.
By buying a trailer, Mike and I hoped that we could enjoy a long road trip camping while avoiding the emotionally taxing price tag of disequilibrium as we constantly adjusted to new surroundings. This was long-winded way of saying that the trailer would become our home, and this homebody could be “home” wherever we went.
And to be comfy in the trailer, I needed my beanbag.
Mike thought the beanbag was ridiculously bulky. Every inch of space inside was valuable real estate.
“And why did you have to get a bright blue one?” He surveyed my precious, high density foam, Kickstarter-funded, ergonomic “Moon Pod” with disdain.
This was no ordinary beanbag. I did not admit how much it cost me, although it might have increased Mike’s respect for the “big blue blob” if I had.
“I’m not going without it,” I said with dignity. “It’s an important zero gravity relaxation device I use every day.”
In a display of passive resistance, Mike neglected to pack it into the admittedly completely full SUV as we prepared to depart for our first long trip, a three-week trek to Yellowstone. The Moon Pod sat forlornly next to the stairs like a hobo’s big bag of laundry hoping for a ride on a cold and windy night.
I locked the house, checked all the doors, put our little dog Koa on his leash, and grabbed the beanbag. I toted it up the stairs to the vehicle. “I told you, I’m not leaving without it.”
Mike blew out an aggrieved sigh as I wedged our dog in at my feet, slid myself in, then drew the gigantic beanbag on top of me. Bulging, squishy blue fabric engulfed me and the entire passenger area, including the windscreen and dashboard, covering me from the car’s roof to my knees. Koa whimpered from the footwell, but I shushed him. There was plenty of air for him down there; I, however, had to roll down my window to breathe.
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