Saturday was the big, consolidated-for-out-of-town-relatives birthday party for my brother’s kids. Our drive is only about an hour, but we don’t seem to be able to get up there as often as we would like. The day itself was very nice. The weather was perfect and I like having a chance to see family and to goof-off with my brother.
By the way, our wives say that the level of goof-offness (not a real word, but should be) that we exhibit when we are in each other’s presence is unrivalled by either of us at any other time. I guess we just have that effect on each other.
But the real kicker for my Saturday was the drive up. As we sat motionless in traffic in the middle of road construction that limited the interstate to a single lane, we could watch the cars on the highway less than a mile to our east flying by to their destinations. The knowledge that this particular road would lead to the exact same location we were headed made our frustration levels even higher. And the guy with the orange vest and a bandanna tied around his head holding a sign that says “SLOW” when we haven’t been able to exceed 5 mph for the last mile or so, he’s just rubbing it in our faces. All we could do was mutter to ourselves about how much quicker we would’ve gotten there if we had only turned off just a few miles back down the road. Why did we not turn off back there?
Only one conclusion was to be made of these people who had enough forethought to exit off of the zero to five mph interstate to the wide open highway a stone’s throw away; they were #@!% bastards.
Either that or it was some sort of sadistic test to measure the depth of our patience, tolerance, or fortitude. If that was the case, we failed miserably. But I’m pretty sure it was the other thing – the bastard thing. Yeah, that has to be it.