The trip from Savannah, Georgia, to Athens, Georgia, takes four hours. There are two ways of making that pilgrimage, and like all religions, its divisions promote strong feelings. One way is to take Interstate 16 to US 441/29. This route, Chris’ preference, is technically the longer route, but thanks to four-lane highways and passing lanes and bypasses around small towns, it takes the same amount of time as the shorter route. It is a more efficient means of travel, and a driver can maintain more or less the same speed. If the truth be told, it is the less frustrating choice.

My choice is the other route: Interstate 16 to Highways 57/15, which takes the driver off the interstate far more quickly and through a series of even smaller Georgia towns. It is a route that always makes a driver feel slightly lost, with the sighting of a 57 or 15 sign feeling like a serendipitous occasion. It happily reminds me of the Georgia of my youth, with its two-lane roads overlooking cows and farms and stands of trees, with its hazards of being stuck behind a loaded logging truck or an oversized tractor. In Swainsboro there is (or at least there used to be) a trailer with “AA” in front of it — an “AA” that is about 12 feet tall — which always makes me laugh for two different reasons: Exactly how anonymous can Alcoholics Anonymous be with that kind of signage? and Even without the sign, can one truly be an anonymous alcoholic in Swainsboro, Georgia? There are the twin cities of Tennille and Sandersville, separated by a train track, and there is a barn along the route whose owner keeps painted to inspire football greatness. (This year’s message: CHUBB FOR HEISMAN.) And then there is the trek through Wrightsville, the home of Herschel Junior Walker — a fact that hardly needs the green highway sign that announces it.

Chris and I drove his preferred route this Friday to Athens for a football game on Saturday. As he threw our shared duffel bag into the trunk of the car, it struck me that when it comes to road trips, I am a dog. Chris has but to open the car door a crack, tilt his head and say, “C’mon, girl!,” and stand back as I happily bound out the front door. I settle into the car with my things (magazines, knitting, podcasts), and as long as I am kept fed and watered, and allowed to stretch my legs every so often, I am perfectly content. And while I would have preferred my way, I suppose it does not matter:  Either way gets us from Savannah to Athens in the same amount of time, which is either four hours or 23 years, depending on your perspective.

It is funny how the drive back to your college town throws your personal odometer into reverse and makes you feel like you’re hurtling backwards in time. One moment you’re a 47 year-old mother of two teenagers, the next you’re a new parent in your 30s, suddenly you’re a newlywed, and as the car parks for the final time, you’re convinced you’re a co-ed. That last, euphoric feeling lasted exactly nine seconds, for that is the time it took my arthritic feet to hit the ground and my myopic eyes to spot an actual co-ed, and it suddenly became clear yet again: I wasn’t getting any younger.

That fact has gnawed at me on prior trips to Athens. It is a town brimming with youth. But my age did not bother me at all this time. I chalk it up to a certain attitude of youthful abandon — or at least middle-aged abandon (since actual youthful abandon would probably do me in now). It amuses me what passes for “abandon” these days. On this trip, I ate half a loaf of bread — with butter — at dinner, followed by all of my dinner (which included french fries), followed by most of Chris’ dessert. I called home after 11 p.m. I brushed but I did not floss. I did not read. I watched TV in bed. I slept until 9:37 the next morning. I drank a single Coors Light with breakfast. And I wore a Todd Gurley replica jersey to the game.

The jersey was a recent addition to my wardrobe, and it was time: A fan needs to represent. I had worked hard in the past to put together tasteful, maybe even whimsical, combinations of red and black, but as the game approached, my heart desired a jersey. Did I need a jersey? Two answers were equally true: Absolutely! and Not at all! As a nod to both answers, I decided to buy the least expensive jersey I could find. For $29, I ordered a Todd Gurley jersey — albeit a boy’s XL jersey —  and for a tense few days, I had  images of myself stuck with an ill-fitting crop top. But it wasn’t, and as I wandered the game, I saw a million other Todd Gurleys, all boys under the age of 12, whose mothers apparently bought them the cheapest jerseys possible with the understanding that they would outgrow it soon. I bought mine with the desperate hope that I wouldn’t.

So Chris (in his tasteful combination of red and black) and I (in my boy’s jersey) watched the game in the rain. I barked like a dog and clapped and yelled and danced with the band and shook pom-poms and at one low, low point, even booed the ref. I drank two diet Cokes and ate one absolutely delicious Chick-Fil-A sandwich and eavesdropped on conversations and talked clothes with a fan from the other team in the ladies’ restroom. I heard the fight song and saw the players and shouted along with the cheerleaders. In that familiar town, in that familiar stadium, with my college boyfriend and husband, I felt 18 and 47 at the same time.

Chris and I left early, and as we walked through campus, he told me a story about himself that I had never heard before. He had taken a career placement test at college, and it suggested that he become either a diplomat or a lawyer. I replied that his becoming a diplomat was about as plausible as my becoming a mime: We’d both look the part, but we’d both be in trouble when we opened our mouths. I laughed. He laughed. We clasped hands and bumped hips, and I left the ghosts of the past where we stood. Walking up the hill toward the car, I smiled when I passed families and children. I even passed up the free cinnamon rolls offered by the Mormon kids and turned down another Coors Light.

It was time to get home.

ALC