Do the Next Right Thing

Did I ever tell you this story?

I’m supposed to be to work at 8:00 am. It’s Monday. It’s February. It’s snowing like crazy and it’s freezing cold, cold like a blizzard. Crazy cold. Your boogers freeze when you breathe through your nose kind of cold. I’m in bed, I have pajamas on, but no socks and my feet are cold. I’m too tall for my short bed. I was so cold I couldn’t sleep all night and I’m still tired. I’m lying there in bed thinking about how broke I am. Washing dishes at the Chancery doesn’t pay much. All I have for cash is bus fare to get to work and pay day is on Friday. And I think to myself, this sucks. I look at my alarm clock and I have two hours to get to work, which is more than enough time. So what do I do?

I get out of bed, grab my bus fare and run for the bus. In my pajamas and barefoot, no jacket, gloves, hat, or keys to the house. I don’t even take time to lock myself out. I just leave the door wide open with the heat on. I get to the bus and I ride the bus as far as it will go. I’m like ten miles from home. I get off the bus without getting a transfer and I run farther than the bus until I see a car in a driveway of a nice big house and people inside. I run up to the front door and I bang on the door and ring the doorbell like crazy. I run out to the car in the driveway and I crawl underneath it. I stick my tongue to the muffler. It is instantly stuck. So where does that put me?

I’m under the car of some strange guy who is mad at me and yelling. I’m frost bitten on all of my appendages (including the peeper). I’m hungry because I didn’t eat breakfast. I’m breathing hard from all that running and my lungs hurt. I have no way to get back home. Even if I did, I don’t know why I’d go. I’m late for work. In fact, I’m fired because I’m late again. I’m sure the hoodlums have walked off with all of my Belinda Carlisle and Teena Marie CD’s. I have to pee. My tongue is stuck to this guy’s muffler and the only way to get it off is for him to start his car and burn my tongue. While he’s revving up his car, I breathe in the exhaust and pass out.

I wake up in the hospital. I hear David Bowie: “Ashes to Ashes”.

I make up this story all the time. It’s got the same scenario, but the events change. It’s my worst case scenario vignette. It’s funny, but laughter is not the only best medicine, there is crying as well. I think of Peter Gabriel and his CD So. A line from Washing of the Water “and if I follow through, I face what I deny”. I can make myself cry to that song all the time. I think about doing the right thing. If I always do the right thing, I’ll never have my tongue stuck to a car in a blizzard wearing pajamas away from home and late for work. …Yeah. I don’t know why it works, but when I’m out of my head, Ashes to Ashes does the trick. I lay there and listen for answers. I once listened to it for over two days straight, over and over. Nothing else but that. Everything seems to work out fine with some time to think and a little faith. It’s like my nerve salve. (Salve My Jagged Nerves)

I’m not going to go back and read/edit this message. I just babbled, like I was talking. And if I was really talking, I can’t take back what you just heard. So, I just talked to you for a while. Such a while that I’m sufficiently late for bed.

Keep warm,
Rebel with a Frog.