The Procrastinating Writer

In the summer of 2004, my ex-girlfriend Ana and I were on a cross-country road trip on our way from my parents’ house in West Virginia to summer internships we had in Los Angeles—hers at the Feminist Majority Foundation and mine at The Advocate newsmagazine (back when it was still in print form, as well).

As is bound to happen on long car rides, we got bored, and somewhere on I-40 while crossing the barren landscape of northern Texas, we decided to play car games to keep ourselves occupied.

We started out with the usual ones: finding all the letters of the alphabet on roadside signs, searching for every state’s license plate, and attempting to name as many states as possible without cheating and looking at my atlas. (At the time, most people had one in their cars, and I was still mesmerized by the wonder that was my Nokia 6822 with a flip-open keyboard. Now, a simple Google search on a smartphone would suffice as a fact-checking mechanism.)

But I digress.

After discovering our memories were inept when it came to reciting the mere 50 states in this country—we probably only got 40 or 45 before giving up—I suggested we do something a little simpler to resuscitate our egos.

“We clearly suck at this, so why don’t we try something else?” I said.

“Like what?”

“Let’s just name the seven continents. It’s easy enough.”

“Good idea,” Ana said. “Go ahead.”

Thinking this would be a fairly quick game, I began.

“North America, South America—”

“You’ve already fucked up,” Ana said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. North America and South America are continents.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No, it’s only one continent.”

“What’s only one continent?”

“The Americas.”

“‘The Americas’ is not a continent,” I said.

“Yes, it is.”

My carefree car game was quickly turning into a heated argument of the most ridiculous proportions.

“That doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you agree there are seven continents?” I said.

“Of course.”

“Then what’s your seventh continent?”

“What do you mean?” Ana said.

“Well, if you’re saying ‘the Americas’ is one singular continent, you only have six. You have to make up the seventh one somewhere.”

“I’m aware there are seven,” she sneered.

“Name them, then.”

“Fine. The Americas—”

“Oh, Jesus,” I groaned.

She glared at me.

“Would you let me finish?” she said.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“The Americas,” she said, as I rolled my eyes.

“Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, Antarctica—”

“So, where’s the seventh?”

“I’m getting there! The last one is Artica.”

“What the fuck? Artica isn’t a continent; it’s not even a thing!”

My words were saturated with horror and disbelief, and, honestly, a little embarrassment for her sake.

“Yes, it is!” she said.

“No, it isn’t! Antarctica is a continent. Artica is just something you made up.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re wrong.”

We had shifted into yet another one of our yelling matches.

“I’m not wrong! North America and South America are two separate continents, and Artica doesn’t even exist.”

“Well, if you’re so sure North America and South America are separate continents, where does Mexico fit in?” she said.

“North America”

“No, it’s part of ‘the Americas.’”

“No, it’s part of North America! You’re from Mexico. How do you not even know which continent it’s on?”

“You’re being unfair to Mexico,” she said angrily.

“How am I being unfair to Mexico?”

“Because you’re leaving it out!”

“Leaving it out from what?”

“From the continents. This is a perfect example of American self-importance with you just throwing Mexico in with the United States.”

“I’m not just throwing it in there; that’s where it is! It’s in North America, as is Canada and Greenland. I don’t have any control over where the tectonic plates are.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine. I’ll prove it.”

Even though I’m far from advanced when it comes to the complexities of world geography and the location of every country, I was confident I, at least, knew the seven continents.

I grabbed the atlas from the passenger seat’s back pocket, hoping it would have a world map with marked continental divisions so I could tangibly back up my point.

After pouring over it at length, I realized Rand McNally wasn’t going to be of any help to me on this issue. I guess they’d chosen the logical route and decided not to include places unreachable by car from the United States in their road atlas. I’m sure they also assumed anyone old enough to drive would know the continents.

To put an end to the dispute, I called my mom.

“Hey, Chuck.”

That’s what I call my mom. Long story.

“I have a question for you,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Ana and I are having a debate. What are the seven continents?”

I switched to speakerphone.

“North America, South America, Europe, Asia, Antarctica, Africa, and Australia.”

“Thank you,” I said joyfully.

Ana leaned in toward the phone.

“What about Artica?” she said.

“What’s Artica?” my mom said.

“A continent.”

“Artica’s not a continent.”

It was clear from the tone of her voice Chuck was confused.

“I’ve never even heard of Artica,” she said.

“See, I told you.” I said, while looking at Ana.

I rejoiced at my resounding, albeit expected, victory.

“It is so a continent!” Ana said.

She proceeded to go through her list again.

My mom listened patiently to the inane ramblings of a girl in need of a grade school geography reboot before chiming back in.

“North America and South America are separate continents,” she said, “and Artica doesn’t exist. Are you sure you don’t mean Antarctica?”

“No, I know what Antarctica is. Artica is something different.”

I could no longer contain my frustration.

“For god’s sake, Artica isn’t a thing! Chuck, would you go to a computer and look up the names of the continents on the Internet and read them to us?”

“Sure,” she said.

Moments later, she read them off, solidifying my triumph in this absurd debate.

“North America, South America, Europe, Asia, Australia, Antarctica, and Africa.”

Ana harrumphed.

“Thanks, Chuck. I’ll call you later. Love you.” I said.

“You’re welcome. Love you, too.”

I hung up and looked at Ana with self-satisfaction.

She glared at me with annoyance.

“You know, this is yet another example of one my biggest problems with you,” she said.

Great, I thought, this should be interesting.

“You can’t let anybody else win; you can never admit when you’re wrong.”

“But I wasn’t wrong.”

“Whatever,” she said snidely.

She turned her focus back to the road and continued driving down the straight strip of asphalt cutting through the desolate landscape.

Jesus Christ, I thought. This is going to be a long trip.