Signs you’ve reached the end of a long week.
Today was Friday, and all of these events really happened.
Though knowing one would have told you the other.
Here are my symptoms:
After spending two hours waiting for your truck tune-up to be finished, you politely lie to the mechanic, who cautions you, “Not to get in a hurry,” that you have, “No reason to.”
Any strange knocking noises will be chalked up to loosely stored items in the back of the truck following the rationale, “The mechanic just checked this out; what could have gone wrong in only a few hours?”
It takes special concentration not to equate up-tempo songs with increased velocity Ironically, this doesn’t work the other way around, because my tendency to sub-divide maintains a speedy beat to tap along to).
The time spent picking cockle burrs off your shirt, pants, and self, will rise exponentially according to the tenacity of the seed pods, the humidity, and the number of people who stare at you like you’re a nimrod as they pass by.
At the edge of a radio station’s broadcasting range, you roll back and forth trying to phase out the static and are more concerned with a clear signal than a safe parking position.
You momentarily forget that the rule is “Look both ways, THEN cross street,” rather than “Look both ways WHILE crossing the street;” a point which a honking van driver helps reinforce.
You let an oil tanker, driven by an apparently suicidal maniac, pass you, rationalizing it by thinking if he’s going to wipe out, crash, and incinerate a 3-block radius around him, you’d rather see the wall of flame coming toward you rather than catch a final, brief glimpse of it in the “Objects closer than they appear” mirror.
One wonders if all the time spent listening to country radio is really starting to “get” to you as you yell, “Giddy up” or “Woo Hoo!” while pulling away, making tight turns, and cresting steep hills.
As a downpour slowly turns the clay/gravel road to liquid, you realize you’re reenacting one of those 4X4 all wheel drive commercials excepting the fact there’s a load of trash in the bouncing around the back of your truck. Also the commercials feature a “professional driver” on a “closed course” and you’re some punk kid bumping up County road 308, but otherwise it’s identical.
While thunder rumbles in the distance, you realize your practice of racing from your dry truck cab to tall trees, though it may be in your job description, may not be the wisest thing to do in your current situation.
You drive the speed limit more to bother people who are speeding rather than as a safety precaution.
When preparing to drink a bottle of strawberry flavored carbonated water, which has been mercilessly jostled around in your cooler, rather than slowly opening and closing the cap repeatedly, and patiently lowering the pressure, you twist the cap and immediately stick it out the window as it sprays foam at 70 MPH. Wait, I do that everyday. Anyway…
You come to the crest of a hill, see a large, wet turkey squatting in the road and you find yourself calling out, “Ten pointer!” according to the Unofficial Bird Bowling Scoring Guidelines.
One realizes your, “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” is going to be unlike anyone else you know.
And last, when Highway Patrol Officers are conducting a roadblock in the middle of the state park, and let you pass on through because you’re driving a state vehicle, you pull away singing, “I didn’t have to do the roadblock! I didn’t have to do the roadblock. La, la, la, la, LA..., la!”
How’s that for a “mature” guy who just turned 21?
I don’t need any comments on that last part. I’m self-diagnosed and I know the remedy.
'If_only_I_can_keep_that_Jason_Mraz_signal_from_breaking_up'
