A moment is forever when your vehicle needs gas. The same vehicle being T-boned, spun, flipped and spun again in a busy downtown New Orleans intersection happens in a flash. Nothing that happened registers until your cellphone falls out of your purse and onto your head, smacking you into alertness. D credits seat belts, airbags, crumple zones and all of that hard work engineers put into modern vehicles, but I cannot shake a suspicion that someone wanted me to walk away from the crash of exactly one week ago without a single scratch on me. Lucky me. Lucky other driver.
Three hours go by too quickly when cooing at, fawning over and playing with your adorable twin godsons and plying them with some of their first Christmas presents ever. Three hours is a lifetime when staring in disbelief at the Packers punch themselves in their frozen hoo-has and repeatedly this past weekend. You have to watch all the way to the end, though. Them’s the rules, which only makes every tick of the game clock that much more agonizing.
Plane travel, especially around the holidays, defies all rules of temporal equivalence. Bottom line: I’m glad to be home and not in an airport or an airplane any longer. Speaking of airplanes, there was more onboard drama during this last trip. Something about delays brings out the strangest aspects of people.
Time is like a rubberband. I just want to know who keeps jacking with the Caesium atom when no one is looking.
Oh, madame, I’m just glad you are still alive and well, and still with us. Please take good care of yourself, and get D to help out as best he can. Really.