Anyone who has read the HItchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy will understand when I say, that I’ve got my towel folded under my arm and I’m befriending as many whales as possible.
For the unenlightened, let’s put it this way. If your father told you from birth, Always play the house odds and never draw to an inside straight, what lesson would you derive from those admonishments? Would you hold your nose and dive head-first from the cliff holding a rubber inner tube the size of Manhattan? Or would you spread a blank under the weeping willow and strum your lute? Or, would you scamper on the shoreline, one toe in, one toe out, your jeans rolled to your knees. . .
I’ve been gravitating amongst those options. Wildly crazy, irresponsible for a year or three, followed by a huddled decade under the stairs in the hobbit house. Then, strolling down the lane deliberately daring the elements but only without a jacket on a cool evening, not barefoot in a park during a glorious rainstorm.
I’m beginning to think that I need to lace up my boots, pack a sack lunch, and start down the road to a new destination. Maybe, in the meantime, I should get a new set of rules. But definitely, whatever path I follow and whatever guidelines I adopt, I will not be complaining. Life’s too short to spend it as a Crabby Cathy.