Death, taxes, and the Cubs choking.

*originally posted on myspace on 10/5/2008*

Too often I get caught up in the the destination without stopping to appreciate the journey. I set my mind on some sort of target or finish line, and throw on my blinders and take off at full speed. Often times, (quite recently, in fact) I get to the finish line and I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. Because as I’m taking that journey, the finish line keeps moving and changing; perpetually evolving, demanding me to do the same. But I don’t see it. It’s tragic, really (by Greek standards anyway). I finally do what I’ve been focused on doing for months, really, and despite how well things went the regular season, it’s the playoffs that matter and I’m not changing my gameplan. So I get rocked worse than the Cubs, sent packing for an offseason I wasn’t expecting. This can also be applied literally: ever ride with someone to somewhere and still not know how to get there, after getting there?
I witnessed the fine line between being a Good Samaritan and being a nosy B today. As Nolan and I were pulling out of the gas station, a lady flags us down. Literally, running. She is about 55-65, and may or may not have been a transient.

Lady: I’ve got your license plate number!
Nolan: Okay!
Lady: I’ve got your license plate number, so don’t try to leave!
Nolan *still confused*: Okay?
Lady: You didn’t pay!

Nolan isn’t really sure how to handle someone who is so full of errant conviction they can’t be persuaded by logic. Neither am I. I show her our receipt: October 4th, 2008. 9:45 AM. Pump 4. Paid with debit.

She rebuts our attempt with a levelheaded, rational barb:

Lady: This isn’t yours.

Nolan and I look at each other.

Lady: I’m going to go check.
Nolan: Alright!
Me: Bye!
Lady: I’m going to go check. Wait here.
Nolan: Ohhhkay.

The lady runs back across the street into the gas station. She comes back a minute waving her hands, as if granting us permission to leave was her substitute for a, you know, apology. Some people shouldn’t be let out of their nursing homes. Or in this case, underpasses.

Hannah pointed out an interesting analogy to me. Romantic comedies are to girls what porn is to guys. Both of them are full of completely fantastical depictions of “relationships” that us normal people have no hope of ever living up to. Both serve gratuitous purposes to allow you to pretend you’re in the movie. Something to chew on….



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