Leaving troubles behind, for me, means starting from home with a tank of gas, a bit of mad money and no designated destination. An occupant in the passenger seat doubles the prospects for fun on the run.
Morph moments of searing sadness to weekend madness. Such was the goal on a crisp Saturday morning – to hunt for novelty and laughter, to dump details and deadlines, to chill enough to invite sanity to return.
A rumble startled the Saturday stillness. A sonic boom? An earthquake? Then another rumble or two. Some sort of explosion? A phone ring interrupted the ponderings of possibilities.
“We see smoke your direction. Are you okay? Are you burning anything?”
The sirens grew louder and traffic increased as a bit of panic surfaced. Could I have a fire and not know it yet? Though no smoke was visible from any of my windows, I still rushed to follow curiosity’s lead, jumped in the first pair of jeans yanked hastily from the dryer, tugged a sweatshirt over my nightshirt, and jumbled out the door to follow the trail of pumpers and pickups.
Relief! No one was injured; no one lost a home. After making the rounds to share the neighborhood news, I realized it was past time to pick up my guest for Saturday’s ramblings. No time to change. The jeans I nabbed had been my favorites. Now, though, they are bottomless, gaping around the pockets where many outings thinned the denim in the derrière beyond repair. Though wearing jeans that might bare my undies, I was safe; the nightshirt/sweatshirt combo, certainly not one of my finer fashion moments, even for a hippie boomer, completely covered the evidence that I can be a bum and bare one, too. I am adept at bumming around.
Saturday saunterings seldom last past noon, and stops are rare except for quick appearances in beloved country stores for snacks and scratch-offs, stepping back in time where maybe my face is familiar but few know my name. First impressions were forged long ago anyway. Surely I can be accepted now and then as a smiling slob since I smell okay. That’s my philosophy on Saturdays.
This Saturday, however, had to be extended to fully untangle wrangled nerves. A few more miles meant a few more stops in places where our faces were not known. Good thing. These first impressions might take a while to fade. Not only was I camouflaging a bare derrière, but my guest was also sporting one-of-a-kind shoes – one kind on her left foot and another kind on her right, and she was not even checking on a fire!
“Busted Jeans and Mismatched Shoes” could be the title for a country hit. Whaddya think?
