Is it me, or can even the most mundane of tasks can seem like a wild west adventure? Or perhaps I should be wearing a 12-gallon hat instead of a 10-gallon one to let my brain breathe a little better? Well, pardners, saddle on up. The adventure is about to begin.
(Insert the theme song from “The Good, Bad and The Ugly” here)
It was a steamy summer day. The sun was hovering high above the desolate street like an oven broiler poised to braise some poor unknown steak. Silence pervaded the air. Only the creaking from the gently swaying nearby “For Sale” sign could be heard.
The time was nearing for our mighty hero to mosey his way down the cobbled path to meet his long time rival. Our hero grabbed a cold bottle of water and strapped on his Nike sandals—the ones with the gel-cushioned soles—and ventured out into the wild west of his driveway. As he stepped outside, tumbleweed blew across his path. (I just threw that in there for some dramatic effect). He looked up and there he saw his long time rival’s ominous shadow stretching across the end of the driveway. This formidable opponent was none other than “Crooked Mailbox”—the roughest, toughest, single-posted and one-flagged synthetic plastic mail depository in this neck of woods.
The bells from the old church tower (well, not really a church tower, but the digital
calculator watch strapped to our hero’s wrist) beeped their way from 1 up to
11. And, on the 12th beep, our hero took a deep breath, reached out his arm, grabbed the handle of our villain’s door, and opened it up. That is when it began—the daily staring contest. The contest where our hero gazes into the cavern of Crooked Mailbox’s mouth for what seems like an eternity in hopes that there will be more than mere bills awaiting inside. Could this be the day our hero looks inside and sees a payday?
Our hero’s eyes focused in on the villain as dust blew across the narrow street. The whinny of a Ford Pinto’s horn was heard in the distance. The staring continued for what seemed like an eternity (but was really only a minute or two because the microwave inside signaled that the popcorn was done).
Well, on this sweltering day, the staring revealed nothing inside but an evil emptiness. Our hero slowly backed away from Crooked Mailbox, grumbled under his breath some words of utter discontent, and moseyed on back down the cobblestone driveway to where his hearty meal of microwave popcorn awaited him inside.
Well, “Pilgrims,” until the next showdown…
Life…..saddle on up and enjoy it!