If adventure had an arch-nemesis, it would be my traveling companion: Mr. Excuses. Not a superhero, mind you, unless you consider dodging joy a superpower. His real name is Dave, but I’ve dubbed him Mr. Excuses after surviving five trips together—if “surviving” includes getting stranded at a gas station in Kentucky because “I thought I packed the map.”

Traveling with Mr. Excuses is an experience of lowering expectations and elevating blood pressure. Planning a trip with him is like trying to schedule lunch with a squirrel—evasive, erratic, and occasionally involves acorns.

We once decided to go camping in the Smokies. I was thrilled. Fresh air, starry skies, bears that hopefully minded their own business. But Mr. Excuses texted me the night before: “Can’t go unless my asthmatic cat gets approval from her spiritual healer.” Spoiler: The cat doesn’t exist. Neither does the healer. But you can’t argue with metaphysical pet care.

When we finally did hit the road, he showed up two hours late because “my socks didn’t match the energy of this trip.” The energy? It was 7 a.m. and we were driving a 2008 Honda Civic with a busted speaker.

You’d think the open road would calm his chaos. Nope. Within the first hour he had already claimed:
• He forgot his sunglasses (“Light sensitivity—it’s real.”)
• The GPS gave him motion sickness (“Maps just know too much.”)
• We should stop for “authentic local pastries,” which, in central Alabama, turned out to be stale gas station donuts and regret.

Hotels? Mr. Excuses doesn’t do hotels. “The linens have been slept in by too many vibes.” So, he insists on Airbnb. The one he picked in Nashville was a lovely cardboard box behind a barbecue joint with a “rustic aroma.” I believe the French call that eau de brisket and raccoon.

Dining with him is a performance art piece. At every restaurant, he invents a new dietary restriction. Gluten-free on Monday, lactose-intolerant by Tuesday, fruit-phobic by Wednesday. Once he insisted on ordering “just steam” at a seafood place. “With essence of shrimp, but none of the commitment.”

Still, for all the delays, detours, and deeply spiritual cats, I must admit: the man is entertaining. Sure, he’s a logistical nightmare wrapped in a riddle and dipped in confusion, but life’s a little brighter when Mr. Excuses is around. He adds a dash of absurdity to every itinerary. Plus, his ability to explain away anything could be weaponized in high-stakes diplomacy. Or at least used to get out of jury duty.

So, would I travel with him again? Absolutely. As long as I drive, plan the trip, manage the budget, carry both our suitcases, and bring emergency donuts. Because when the world gives you lemons, Mr. Excuses will likely cite citrus sensitivity and demand you exchange them for mangoes.

We all know Mr. Excuses, let’s avoid being that person.