“We’re going on a camping trip this summer,” Dad told me over the phone in May of my freshman year at college.

“You’re kidding, right?” I answered.

“Nope. Renting an RV and driving out to Yellowstone. All of us,” he replied.

“An RV. How big?”

“It’s a 23-foot mini-motorhome. You and Sue will sleep in the bunk above the cab, Eric will be on the bench, and there’s a table that folds down that your Mom and I will sleep on. It’s gonna be fun.”

Oh GOD, shoot me NOW. I thought. This is NOT how I want to spend even one minute of my summer vacation.

I’d hated my freshman year at Valparaiso University, recently been dumped by my boyfriend, gained 10 pounds, and was facing the prospect of working part-time at the sporting goods department in Bergner’s for the summer.

The only good thing was that I was transferring to Northwestern University in the fall. But that was three months away.

“Your sister is only going on part of the trip and is flying home from Denver because she has to get back to her job,” Dad continued.

Ah yes, of course.

While I would toil that summer at the mall in Bloomington, Ill. making minimum wage a few hours a week selling running shoes to middle-aged men, Sue had a real job working at the corporate headquarters of State Farm in the HR department.

“Why can’t I fly back, too?” I whined. “How long are we going to be gone?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks? No way. I’m not going for three weeks. I don’t want to go anywhere with you guys for three weeks. You have ruined my life!”

“You’re going. You don’t have a choice.”

And so that is how I found myself in a truck camper traveling across the U.S. in June with my 11- year-old brother, 20-year-old sister, and parents. I’m sure Yellowstone was beautiful and Mt. Rushmore impressive, but I was so unhappy that I don’t remember much of these national parks.

 I’m scowling in all the photos, looking fat, grungy, and tired.

What I do remember about the trip is that the bunk that Sue and I slept in was so small that if I turned on one side, my face was two inches from the wall. If I turned on the other side, my face was two inches from Sue’s face. And if I turned on my back, my face was two inches from the ceiling.

 To make matters worse, my dad snored. LOUDLY. Every night.

I woke up one morning in the bunk bouncing against the wall and ceiling trying not to fall out as the camper sped down the road. We’d dropped Sue off at the airport and were heading to Yellowstone.

My mom liked to get an early start so we always left wherever we were to get to wherever we were going next before I was up. But that morning, something wasn’t right with me.

I felt that familiar pain in my lower abdomen and realized, to my complete and utter dismay, that I had gotten my period. In the middle of Yellowstone. In a FRICKING RV. With my little brother.

After contemplating my options, I rolled out of the bunk and banged on the cab window. “Mom, Dad!!! I need to ask you something.”

“What is it?” they yelled as they slid the window open.

“Do you think there is a drug store out here?”

“Are you kidding?” Dad answered. But my mom knew right away what had happened. So did my little brother, who started snickering behind me.

“We’ll see what we can find,” Mom shouted. “But it may be awhile.”

Great. I sank back down into the bench and glared at Eric.

We drove into the park and made our way to Old Faithful, where there was a hotel with a gift shop that (THANK GOD) had toiletries. While my mom went into the shop, I stared across the parking lot at the gushing geyser trying to imagine what I would have done if they didn’t sell feminine products in Yellowstone National Park and hating my sister for getting to fly home.

My mood worsened.

“Hey, Sara, we bought you something,” Dad said a few days later as we were hanging out at a strip mall while some mechanical problem in the RV was being fixed. He was smiling and Eric was lurking behind him smirking.

“What is it?” I snapped.

“Here.” He handed me a plastic card. It said, “Official Bitchers Society of America” on one side and, “Bitch, bitch, bitch” on the other. While I looked at it in disgust, they howled with laughter.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “This really makes my day. Why don’t you both just shut up already?”

When we were 60 miles from our house in Normal, Ill. and the trip almost over, that damn RV broke down again, stranding us in a gas station. By that time everyone else was tired of camping, too, and just wanted to be home.

Suddenly, they found themselves feeling the way I had been feeling the whole trip.

While we waited for Sue to come pick us up, Dad took a picture of Eric and I standing in front of the broken down RV with a sign that said, “Normal or Bust.”

Eric is grinning. I am scowling, looking fat, grungy, and tired.