First, some good news: I’ve found a part-time employer who will more-than-fill the void created by the loss of substitute teaching opportunities.
Driving home yesterday, as I watched a driver in a 35-mile-per-hour zone slow to ZERO before turning right. Suddenly I became an angry 17-year-old. Only an old fart would slow to ZERO before beginning to turn right, and that made the disparity between my actual age and emotional age blisteringly apparent.
I have begun to talk to people who want to finish reading Tolstoy novels before noticing the light has turned GREEN and re-engaging that modern convenience called the ACCELERATOR PEDAL. Sometimes I talk quietly, especially when my windows are rolled down. You could hear me if you were in the passenger seat, but not if you were sitting on my front bumper. Other times, I whisper-shout, the kind of antic that spikes the blood pressure, like pushing hard when sitting on the porcelain throne, but doesn’t bother the mope reading Tolstoy. So eventually I will have the brain embolism, die early (and not a minute too soon) and the blind drivers in front of me will live long, reading Russian novels and eating boogers, sometimes concurrently, and that’s okay.
Teenagers grow impatient with distracted doofi because they are so concerned with getting where they want to go, they resent those who impede their strident quest. My metamorphosis to their ilk is in-part inspired by that desire, and in part by my desire to do more with what is left of my life than endure drivel on four wheels. I have more important things to do.
Do you know that turning from a stop wears your tires more than a turn made while decelerating to safe turn entry speed for the first half of the turn and accelerating out of it for the second half of the turn? I’m not jiving you. Issa nachurl faqt.
Don’t get me wrong(ly). I’m not the kind of hot-head who burns rubber getting away from stop signs. I try to be reasonable with the tall pedal and easy on the wide one. Often I shift down approaching stop signs.
But I may be turning into a teenager. If I see one more kid walking down the middle of the street when he or she should be walking on the frikking sidewalk. . . . .
I may be turning into a teenager.
(The above statement was made in an attempt to create an enjoyable reading experience for visitors over 40 years of age. It in no way expresses contempt for, or disrespect for, or ill will for anyone. I love the whole freaking world.)
Live long . . . . . . . and proper.
