Dolly Would Say, “Girl, Stop Worrying and Add Some Rhinestones”

We recently went on a pretty epic road trip. Nineteen days, twenty states, national parks, family, incredible scenery, and so, so much more. Somehow, of all the things we had planned, one of the things I was most excited about was a truck stop. Yes, a truck stop. Let me explain.

When we were planning the trip, one of our stops was supposed to be in Tennessee to visit a friend. At the last minute, we found out he wasn’t going to be there, so we had to do a little rearranging. Now, Dollywood has been on my bucket list for the last couple of years. Don’t ask me why, but somewhere along the way I developed a mild obsession with Dolly Parton. By “mild,” I mean I apparently now consider Dolly-related attractions legitimate reasons to reroute a cross-country road trip.

Unfortunately, when we mapped everything out, Dollywood just wasn’t going to work. BUT Dolly had recently opened her new Tennessee truck stop. A Dolly Parton truck stop!

For some ridiculous reason, out of all the places we were headed, I was the most excited about this silly truck stop. For several days beforehand, I actually passed up some extremely cute water bottles because I was saving myself for the Dolly merch. If you know me at all, please take a moment to appreciate the level of restraint this required.

When we finally got there, it was everything I had hoped for and more. We ate at the little restaurant, I wandered around admiring all the Dolly decor, got an amazing cup of coffee at the Cup of Ambition coffee shop, and of course tried some of her famous cinnamon bread. Most importantly, it should be noted… I shopped! I bought a hat and I bought a sweatshirt. Then I made what may have been one of the biggest mistakes of our entire nineteen-day journey: I did not buy the sparkly red water cup. I have regretted this decision ever since. But I digress.

My husband, fully aware that there was no rushing me through this particular experience, found himself a comfortable spot in the truckers’ lounge and let me wander and shop to my heart’s content. I was ridiculously happy.

Eventually, we got back in the car and continued on our trip. I honestly didn’t think much more about our Dolly stop, except, of course, for that damn sparkly red water cup. I wore my new hat the very next day and was already looking forward to wearing my sweatshirt when the weather got cooler. All was good in my little Dolly-loving world.

Until five days later, when we heard the news that Dolly Parton had passed away.

It was hard to believe. She was just one of those people you assumed would always be around. Then as we tend to do when someone famous dies, especially someone who has been part of our culture for what feels like forever, everyone started talking about her. The news was filled with stories. Social media was flooded with photos, songs,

memories, quotes, and tributes. People shared what she had meant to them. It’s what we do when an icon leaves us. We collectively stop for a minute and remember.

All of that felt completely normal. What I didn’t expect was my own reaction. I’m not even quite sure how to describe it, because it started with this very strange thought: “Well, I can’t wear the sweatshirt now. People will think I only bought it because she died.” Which is ridiculous. These imaginary people apparently had no idea that I had been wandering around a Dolly Parton truck stop five days earlier, happily drinking my Cup of Ambition coffee and exercising heroic restraint over a sparkly red water cup.

Then I was talking to someone about her and actually felt the need to mention that I had been “into” Dolly before she died. You know, just to establish my credentials. Apparently I needed it officially noted somewhere that I was not some newly converted, bandwagon Dolly fan. I had been, BEFORE. Ugh. What in the world was that about?

Why did I suddenly care whether some completely hypothetical person thought my Dolly sweatshirt and hat were genuine? Why did I feel the need to explain myself at all? Somewhere between the truck stop and Dolly’s passing, my cute new sweatshirt had somehow turned into a statement that required a disclaimer. There I was, once again, worrying about what other people might think about something that made me happy.

Which is especially funny considering I have written more than once about how one of the great freedoms of getting older is supposedly caring less about what other people think. I should have added an asterisk to that statement.

Because clearly, I still care. Maybe not as much as I used to, and definitely not about the same things, but there it was. This tiny little voice in my head saying, People are going to think you’re only wearing that because Dolly died. As though strangers in a grocery store were going to stop, look at my sweatshirt and think, Oh please. Where was SHE five days ago? At Dolly’s truck stop, thank you very much.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized there was something else underneath it. I didn’t want something that had genuinely made me happy to suddenly look performative. I didn’t want people to think I was pretending to feel something because everyone else was feeling it. I wanted them to know my little Dolly obsession was real.

Which brings me to the much more obvious question: Why on earth did I need them to know anything? The sweatshirt hadn’t changed. The hat hadn't changed. I hadn’t changed. The fact that Dolly died didn’t erase how ridiculously excited I had been to visit her truck stop, how happy I was drinking my coffee, or how much fun I had wandering around looking at everything. It certainly didn’t change the fact that I should have bought that damn red water cup.

The only thing that changed was the story I imagined someone else might tell about me. Ha and there it was! I wasn’t actually worried about what I thought. I was worried about what I thought someone else might think. Which, when you really think about it, is an absolutely exhausting way to spend your life.

So yes, I’m wearing the sweatshirt and the Dolly hat. If someone thinks I bought them because Dolly died, they can think that. I don’t need to explain when I bought them, where I bought them, or provide photographic evidence of myself standing in a Tennessee truck stop five days earlier. (But I can if you want me to lol)

I liked Dolly before she died. I like the sweatshirt. That really should be enough.

Although if anyone happens to be passing through Tennessee and sees a sparkly red Dolly water bottle, call me. There are some regrets I’m not quite ready to let go of.

Plot twist... maybe I just need to be a little more like Dolly. Because you know damn well she would've bought the cup.

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