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THE WAYS IN WHICH I RESEMBLED NEITHER THELMA NOR LOUISE DURING MY RECENT ROAD TRIP

My car is not a turquoise Thunderbird convertible, but a black Hyundai Elantra GT with a hatchback, purchased five years ago for its sensible 10-year warranty and excellent gas mileage.

I was not subconsciously or consciously trying to escape a dissatisfying marriage or an indecisive boyfriend named Jimmy, but going to visit my mother down in Delaware who had the same two days off from work as me. We were planning on eating some of her homemade lasagna and stopping by T.J. Maxx.

I was not wearing a white sundress, a sleeveless denim shirt strategically tied at the waist to reveal my midriff, or a Harley Davidson T-shirt. I was wearing a green fleece, a pair of jeans, and the sneakers I usually wear to the gym. Halfway through the trip, I took off the fleece, under which I had on an orange T-shirt I’ve owned since high school.

My route did not start in Arkansas, then zigzag through Oklahoma and Colorado to end at the Grand Canyon. I started off in the EZ pass lane of the George Washington Bridge’s tolls to get to the New Jersey Turnpike, then the Delaware Memorial Bridge, then Route 141, north. I really needed to pay extra attention to that final step because I missed that exit, once, and had to drive about 15 miles south on I-95 before I could turn around.

I did not stop to do Tequila shots then dance with a nothin’-but-trouble married man, nor did I hit up some marijuana dispensaries and toke up with him. I did, however, pull over to a service station to get gas, then bought a bottle of water and some almonds.

My traveling companion did not shoot someone in order to protect me, prompting her to flee to Mexico. I was accompanied by a human-sized bag of laundry that would turn out to be four loads, which I would wash in cold water with all-purpose liquid detergent. I would put most of that laundry in the dryer and hang some of the nicer garments on a drying rack my mom has, so they wouldn’t shrink.

I did not blow up a tanker truck filled with gasoline, but I did fish around in my bag to find a piece of gum, and then I chewed it.

I did not pick up Brad Pitt then have a night of revelatory sex with him in a rundown motel. I did think about him, though.

I did not get chased, then surrounded by a flank of cop cars, leaving me no choice but to drive straight off a cliff. I did spot a policeman on the other side of the Turnpike and therefore slowed down from the posted speed limit of 65 mph to 62 mph, just in case.