“Sweet Mother of God, what have I gotten myself into?”

Usually this thought flickers through my mind near the beginning of a trip, most recently in October when the pilot announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Johannesburg.”

It’s also usually the portent to an exceptionally good trip.

This time I gasped when I took the keys to my rental, a 9-seater Ford Explorer. The compact car I’d reserved had been swapped out last minute. I imagined the gas this beast would suck from DC to New Orleans. I imagined me, a small-car girl, taking out half the state of West Virginia trying to navigate it.

The employee at the desk explained: “There was a big run on cars earlier in the week, people flying in who needed to drive down to Virginia Tech.”

License to complain immediately suspended. (In an unrelated note about this tragedy, a request to the media: Please, less focus on the shooter, more focus on the 32 victims whose remarkable lives were cut short.)

As I roll into the hotel, I discover that my vehicle is among the smallest on the road.