Just off the top of my head, these are a few fears I have about living in an RV, and I need to get them off my chest NOW.
1. The constrained living space will result in nuclear arguments with the Other Half—OR I’ll fall face-first onto the toilet or stove.
The smallest space we’ve lived in up to now was a 350 square-foot studio in Venice, California, BUT that was within walking distance to the beach. So anytime it felt like the walls were closing in, we could easily escape for an ocean-side run or ride our bikes down Santa Monica Boulevard.
Our current apartment is 600+ square feet with a separate bedroom, so this place is practically a mansion compared to our studio. (It’s also more than double the price we were paying for that studio and charges $500 more if you sign a month-to-month lease. Seriously.)
The realization that we’ll be cohabiting in an 11-foot-long Lance 1030 is—I have to admit—a little disconcerting.
I mean, if someone leaves a sock on the floor *cough* Pier *cough*, it’s a hundred times
more likely to be a tripping hazard in a camper.
And then when I inevitably fall, my face will land on the still-scalding stovetop, which will result in the unfortunate nickname Sammy Grillface Jr.
2. Something explodes/falls off/gets irreparably damaged and leaves us stranded, or we have to sell a kidney to fix it.
This WILL happen, I know. It’s just a matter of when. Things break, I get it. But why do they have to break when I’m around?
I remember being with my family in Florida when I was six. We were traveling down I-75 in one of Florida’s famous sporadic downpours when my dad’s Blazer shook and jerked to the side. My parents looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see the entire wheel of our camper rolling solo down the interstate, as if to say, “Welp, it’s been real; see ya!”
I am prepared for this to happen. And by prepared, I mean we have Triple A so someone far more mechanically inclined than either one of us will come to our rescue.
3. Finding good wifi turns out to be a constant struggle, making remote work a stressful nightmare instead of the dream we envision.
You know that rage you get when the wifi goes out in the office, followed by the overwhelming sense of helplessness when you realize how much of what you do is dependent on Internet connectivity?
That’s the fear I have when it comes to working remotely. It’s going to be a continuous cycle of anger, helplessness, momentary euphoria when I have a connection—followed again by anger as it quits, all within a span of 20 minutes.
If anyone has recommendations for the best wifi option for RVs and campers, please let us know in the comments or email us at firstname.lastname@example.org. Pretty pretty please!
4. The reality of living in a camper shatters the romanticized ideal we’ve created in our heads.
It started with the idea of tiny house living—which I would like to point out, we wanted to do WAY before Tiny House Hunters on HGTV, thank you!
But then we also wanted to travel, a dwelling we could transport from Point A to Point B without the need to find land or haul a massive hulk of architecture behind a truck (that we would also have to buy or rent). An RV seemed like the most logical option, so that’s what we set out to do.
Now we have one—but we have yet to see what it’s actually like living in it. Will it be a disaster? Or will it be the best decision we’ve made? I’m trying not to romanticize it too much, because I know there will be gritty moments that will test the limits of myself and my patience.
Either way, I’m excited to find out. ‘Cause as the good ole’ poet Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “Life is a journey, not a destination.”
And how else are you supposed to learn from your mistakes if you can’t make them in the first place? 🙂