I was happily minding my own business heading home from the grocery store. You know, the essentials — bread, milk, toothpaste, ice cream, TP. So I am entering the on-ramp at 65 and Sunshine and immediately notice this large vroom-vroom truck driven by two very elderly folk pulling a mondo 5th wheel RV. Nothing particularly odd about that given the region in which we all live and love. But wait. I notice across the back they have a huge custom graphic naming their beloved RV — “Sexual Tension.” Not “Road Warrior” or “Weekend Getaway” but Sexual Tension. Double-take you ask? Oh my.
Now if you have followed Moore Droppings long enough you know how much I relish this sort of strange intersection where deliberate thought and creative urges collide. It is a juxtaposition I can not ignore studying. Not at all unlike my over-thought academic interest in the rhetoric of bumper stickers and how they come to live on the back of vehicles ranging from seven-figure Bentley’s to my total POS Honda. (Spoiler alert – bumper stickers will be the subject of a future Dropping.)
So back to the issue facing us now. I tried to ignore this interruption to my otherwise normal day, but I said totally out loud, “Why, pray tell, might two octogenarian opt for such a naming opportunity?” I immediately started trying to piece this together.
My first thought was that they were looking for the coolest ice-breaker possible when they pull into the KOA campground. Who are these people? Do they have kids? Do the kids know? It was a guess on my part but I rationalized his name or handle has to be Good Sam, right? For the purpose of this narrative we will call her Mabel and I flashed, if only for a moment, on her likely handle — Able Mabel? Capable Mabel?
It struck me like an errant deer grazing on the centerline — Good grief, they are crisscrossing the heartland in this rig! What sort of carnage did they leave at the Royal Gorge? Did they fully extinguish their last campfire per Smokey Bear protocol? Imagine how the truckers at Love’s Truck Stops across America must react when they pass Sexual Tension on the super slab. “Breaker, Breaker!! Hey Hoss Man, I just passed Sexual Tension at the 86 mile marker — hoo, they gone!”
Imagine the looks they get pulling off at the first rest stop on the Penn State Turnpike. My inner-amateur psycho-analyst shrink-voice was crying out, “Who is suffering the tension her or him?” Is it chronic? Is it being treated? Does Part D cover this?”
Then it hit me like a brick — they are at that marvelous point in life where the need to justify anything to anyone for any reason is at the absolute bottom of their care less colander. I so wanted to speed up and at least give them a congratulatory toot on my Klaxons and a hearty thumbs up, but in a flash, they were out of sight and I jolted back to reality – ice cream melting in the back seat.
It occurred to me and hopefully to you my dear Droppings aficionados, Sam and Mabel and that good old Sexual Tension recreational vehicle represent sweet freedom personified and another grand adventure. Go get ’em kids.