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So this week I’m driving my red Prius out to California—something I’ve wanted to try for a long time.

Some have said I’m crazy. “That’s an insanely long journey” and “Why don’t you just have it taken out?” Good points. But I love driving, and I love sights. And I love adventures. Hence, I’m sitting here in Wytheville, Virginia, room 316 of the Quality Inn, $70 for the night, exhausted after 530 miles on the road, charged by a day of shit coffee drinks and McDonalds $1 sodas and the occasional Hostess-esque snack.

The weirdest thing about this journey (some would suggest): My co-pilot isn’t my wife, who’s in Florida with the kids. My co-pilot isn’t one of my guy friends. No, my co-pilot is Robyn Furman, my longtime University of Delaware chum and (gasp!) a woman! Who’s not my wife! And we’re even sharing … a hotel room!

Double gasp!

The gasps are sarcastic. However, I’ve met several people who would never, ever “let” (I hate the way that word is used) a spouse do a five-day trip like this with someone of the opposite sex. Which leads me to offer these points:

1. If you don’t trust your husband or wife, why are you married to that person?

2. My wife happens to be cool as shit. As is Robyn’s husband.

3. Good friends are good friends. Shared histories are shared histories. Gender doesn’t matter.

4. I’m exhausted.

Seriously, I’m e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d. We left at 11 this morning, got here about 10. I drove the entire time, which is physically draining. My eyes are jumping left and right. My fingers are twitchy. My head is spinning. I have no idea where we’ll wind up tomorrow, which is half the fun. But, right now, I need sleep.

Zzzzz …