Sally Breslin: My Life: DEFINITELY NOT A HAPPY CAMPER

Several of my friends recently have purchased camper vans, which are a little wider and taller than regular vans, get about 20 miles to the gallon, and contain, among other things, a bed, stove, refrigerator and bathroom.

If my husband were alive, he would be extremely envious because one of his big dreams always had been to own a camper van. Was it because he was an outdoorsy person who had a strong urge to go camping? Heck no. Any man who thought marshmallows toasted over an open campfire were "disgusting," definitely was not camping material.

No, the reason why my husband wanted a camper was because he had to take diuretics for his heart, so every time we went for a ride, within 10 minutes he desperately would be searching for a restroom. I can't even count the number of times we had to drive miles off the highway during our searches and ended up in places where no tourist (other than my husband) who valued his life ever would have dared to step foot out of the car.

So early one summer evening, we took a ride over to a place that sold recreational vehicles. Almost immediately, my husband spotted the camper van of his dreams. It was sleek and compact. It was shiny. It was $79,000.

Nevertheless, dreamer that he was, he was eager to explore the interior. We searched for an employee. No one was around.

"If this was a car dealership," my husband said, "a salesman would have been flinging himself across the hood of our car the minute we pulled in."

We headed inside the building. There, we found a woman seated at a desk. Behind her stood a man drinking a cup of coffee.

"We'd like to see that van right there," my husband said, pointing at it through the big picture-window.

"We don't have any of those left," the man said, then yawned.

My husband and I both just stared him. "But there’s one sitting right there," I said.

The salesman glanced out the window. "Nah, you don't want to see that one." Before we could say another word, he walked off, leaving us standing there.

That did it. My husband's face turned bright red and he got "the crease" between his eyes. The crease was, and always had been, a dead giveaway that he was angry or upset. Even his friends knew about it. If they dropped by for a visit and I mentioned that my husband was in a grumpy mood, they would ask, “Does he have the crease?” If I said no, then they’d come inside.

"The guy mustn't work on commission," my husband snapped as he stormed out of the building in the RV lot and headed back to our car. "You know what? I'll bet he thought we looked like we couldn't afford his dumb van! I wish I could win the lottery and come back here and buy the whole place, just to show him!"

"Yes, dear," I said, all the while thinking that if by some miracle we ever did win the lottery, I could think of a thousand better things I'd rather do with the money.

And so the topic of camper vans was dropped...until about a year later. My husband came home from his doctor's appointment one morning, looking more flushed than usual. "I just saw a Phasar Itasca for sale in front of a house on the way to the doctor's!" he fairly gushed. "I stopped to look at it and the sign said it's a 1998, everything works, it has only 55,000 miles on it, and here’s the best part...it's only $3,500!"

"What's a Fazer Statka?" I asked, thinking it sounded like some kind of alien weapon from Star Trek.

"A camper van!" he said. "I can’t wait for you to go check it out and see what you think! Oh, and when you do, can you write down the phone number that's on the sign? I didn't have a pen or paper with me, and I want to call the guy before anyone else snaps it up!"

So the next day I went to check out the van. As I headed over there, I kept thinking that $3,500 sounded too good to be true for something as seemingly wonderful as my husband had described.

The first thing I noticed when I pulled up to the van was that it was awfully faded looking. The second thing I noticed was it had quite a few dents and holes in it. I walked over to the front of it to read the sign. The year said 198. I'm no scholar, but that seemed to be one number too short.

That's when I noticed the van's registration paper, folded over the sun visor, facing the windshield. I strained to read it and saw that the year of manufacture was 1986. Apparently, the guy had forgotten to write the number six after the 198 on his sign. My husband's precious 1998 van suddenly had aged 12 years. Still, I wrote down the phone number.

"Well?" my husband eagerly asked the minute he got home from work that night. "Did you see the van? Did you like it? Did you get the phone number?"

"Um, I hate to break the news to you," I said, "But the year is actually 1986. And didn't you notice all of the holes and dents in it?"

His expression fell faster than a cake in a slammed-door oven. "A 1986?" he muttered. "No wonder the price seemed so cheap. The thing he older than dirt."

"Well, you can still call the guy and ask him about it," I said. "I mean, the mileage seems pretty good for such an old vehicle."

"That’s probably because the odometer is already on its third go-round,” he said, frowning. “Our luck, we'll be driving down some deserted road in the middle of the mountains where there’s no cell-phone reception, and the van will decide to fall apart from old age and leave us stranded. That's all we'd need."

"On the bright side," I said, smiling, "at least you'll still have a toilet with you."

I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure I saw "the crease."

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