Have you ever been in a lane behind someone, traveling along at a good clip (cops of Minneapolis: “good clip” = “speed limit”), with everything going fine, and everyone happy with the car length ratio between themselves and fellow travelers? When suddenly, the car in front of you inexplicably slows down, to the point that you’re tailgating them? And you don’t want to slow down because there’s no reason to, so you back off the accelerator and hope they’ll speed back up? But they don’t, so you’re forced to pass them? Well, it’s always kind of bittersweet for me when that moment happens; it’s like I’m breaking up with them, my highway partner. I feel like I need to roll down my window to explain: “Look, it’s not you, it’s me. I mean, everything started out so fast and it was great, but now that we’ve slowed down, I’ve decided…I guess I’m trying to say…I don’t want to be…behind you anymore.”
Or how about when you’re traveling and going around people who believe 45 mph is adequate for a 60 mph limit, and you want to speed a bit (Note to cops: this is entirely fiction), but you don’t want to get caught? And then you see in your rearview mirror someone merging from lane to lane, going around people and they’re going the speed you would like to go? And then you get all excited as they pass you, and maybe you even hum the theme song to “Smokey and the Bandit” in your head? And it’s great, because now you’ve got a runner who will get pulled over before you, especially if they’re driving a red TransAm and you’re in a green Chevy Cav. So you both speed along on your merry way, until it’s time for them to exit, and as you pass, you give them that little nod, the one that says, “Thanks, man. Thanks for being my wingman.”
Or maybe that’s just me.
I finally got new contacts that don’t spontaneously adhere to one another when removed from my eyes. These new ones can be worn for up to 6 days without having to take them out, so of course, I planned on wearing them until forced by gunpoint to remove them, but the contacts had other plans. I’ve already had three pairs in my eyeballs since last Monday and today my left eye is completely blurry. Which is great when your job consists of, you know, proofreading documents comprised of tiny type.
I’ve learned that although these contacts do not bind themselves to each other in compromising positions, I cannot rub my eyes ever when wearing them, as the contacts then get bored and relocate to inconvenient areas of my eye sockets to do further long-term damage to my vision. Also, it appears that they have enlisted the assistance of my eyelashes, as I have removed approximately 32,779 of them from my left eye.
I am becoming increasingly concerned with lash-baldness.
Signs it is a Monday after a nice long holiday weekend:
The cat wakes you up at 4:23 a.m. by sneezing directly into your face.
You hit the snooze alarm *six* times before scraping yourself out of bed, which you have thoughtfully provided with new flannel sheets and a freshly washed comforter for maximum “I don’t want to leave - ever” appeal.
You hit every.single.red.light on the way to work. This is a record.
Your boyfriend cracks his hard-boiled egg open for lunch to discover that it was not, in fact, a hard-boiled egg.
I just experienced my own personal Hell this morning.
What happened, you ask? Oh. Traffic - traffic happened.
I had stupidly scheduled a doctor’s appointment for 7:30 a.m., half chiding myself for the ungodly hour, but half clapping myself on the back because I would be done with it before I had to be at work.
The hospital is 10 miles away. Located right off a major freeway. After consulting with Jason, and thinking of all the times we’ve driven this route in the past, even allowing for early morning commuters, we concurred that 30 minutes was reasonable. (That’s a little foreshadowing there, folks.)
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