Barefoot Iowa

Because, holy shit, the Cumberland Gap Inn is 1.5 walking miles from Tri-State Peak.

As cute as my feet are, the rest of me is old and out of shape. Shoes could, possibly, save my life.

That 1.5 miles is all uphill. Hence, the word “peak”.

Elevation 1990 feet.

Iowa’s elevation is 571.

The alltrails.com website says the route up will give me a booty workout. The route down might break my ankles.

Why would a fat, 52 year-old Iowa woman even consider this?

Because The Girl, The Grand Girl, Le Grande Belle, is nine years old, fit af and believes, “You’ll be fine, Grandma,”

So, if I die on a mountain in Tennessee/Kentucky/Virginia, make my obit picture my gorgeous bare feet because the rest of me is nowhere near pretty.

F you, mountain. I’m coming up.

Maybe.

And I’m no Kerouac.

I’m more of a Grinch who stole spontaneity and/or desire to travel via interstate fucking highway.

It is 6:23am and I already need Xanax.

It wasn’t supposed to rain. It is raining.

The wifi for the rental isn’t working so my data is getting a good cornholing.

We had to turn around once to take my husband’s keys back to him.

You can’t smoke in a rental car (or around granddaughters) and my nicotine gum is in the bottom of the black leather bag all the way back there near the spare tire.

Let’s take a road trip!

Forget your phobias (highways & storms), forget your addictions (nicotine & caffeine) (no, leave caffeine in there), and hold your water, you fat, broke bitch, we’re driving to Massachusetts.

From BFIowa.

And wtf.

Sitting here at the water park like a fat bitch.

Cranky.

Surly.

Old.

Ready to fight a skinny broad & there aren’t any.

We’re all fat, cornfed, midwestern hoes.

I’m not even the only grandma.

I am possibly the only grandma who hates everyone but my own two grandgirls & did that kid just drop the f bomb at the oldest one?

Of course he did. She is nine years old & likes to start shit she has no idea how to handle. At least he looks to be about the same age. And he’s skinny so she can take him if he swings.

No, she can’t. Mouthy as she is, that girl hasn’t ever been in a fight. I’m not entirely sure she knows fist fights are a thing.

She just loves her smartass mouth.

“Grandma, can I have a cup?”

“What for?”

“So I can dump it on that kid. He splashed water on me.”

“We’re at a water park.”

“Thanks for taking his side.”

And off she goes.

Welcome to f bomb Iowa, bitches. It’s going to be a long damned summer.