Sometimes it pays to be a Scaredy Cat
When I lived with Wrangler Ami, both of us were a bit jumpy, and we would regularly squeak at each other coming out of bathrooms and other scary places. When I lived with my Roommates, I would cower away from all dark areas of the house, especially after watching LOST and getting creeped out. Now that I live with my hunky husband, he’s taken to announcing his whereabouts at all times, to keep me from squeaking at him. “I’m in the hallway! I’m in the office!”
It’s kindof embarrassing.
Yesterday morning, I went to take some laundry downstairs and our neighbor, Surfer Dude, was sitting on the bench outside his front door. “Hey,” he said, and I almost came out of my skin, and it was embarrassing.
BUT THEN, I went running later. And the bushes next to me rustled as I went panting by, so of course I “eeeked!” and moved over, and it MIGHT HAVE SAVED MY LIFE. Because as soon as I jumped over, a rock/dirt clod/missile of death came hurtling down to right where I had been running. I heard a loud guffaw from the cliff above me, and breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have a newly-formed bump on my head or dirt in my hair. My jumpyness saved my life from the drunken tossings of beach bums.
Vindication has arrived.
(PS – Y’all were not helpful in my plea for more creative content yesterday. Anybody? Do you really want to read about my brushes with inconvenience death? C’mon, people.)
3 comments found