It's an easy fifteen minute drive along quiet country highways with barely any traffic. What's not to like?
What? We only get one radio station here. And anyway, I kind of like that song.
But one morning last week, due to too much time and a bad clothing decision in the morning...
For the sake of this story, please pretend that the background changes in every scene, otherwise it might look either like I'm standing still or like everyone in rural Nova Scotia lives in the exact same backyard shed.
...I found myself suddenly racked with stress and worry.
And so, grumbling and irritated, I turn around and drive all the way home. As though to mock my pain, the area's only radio station plays Nickelback. Again. My misery knows no bounds.
I pull into the driveway, leave the car door open and race into the house and down the stairs to the basement. The iron is unplugged, as I knew it would be. I say it out loud: "The iron is unplugged!" I pull out my cell phone and take a picture.
I run back up the stairs and jump in the car. Now I'm running late. So much for getting an early start.
I drive over the bridge that marks the boundary of my village. Halfway across, a thought flits across my brain:
I looked at it. I said it out loud. I took a picture.
The iron is most definitely unplugged.
I'm almost positive.
I check the picture on my cell phone at the stop sign, just to be sure.
All is well.
Author's note: the iron is the only source of this behaviour. No matter what I do, I'm always certain that I left it plugged in and turned on, and that my house is going to burst into flames with Chase the Wonderdog stuck inside. And that, friends, is one of the many, many reasons why I hate to iron. Next time, I'll just sleep an extra ten minutes and wear a wrinkled shirt.
I'm jumping into the weekly Yeah Write writing contest with this fabulous blogging and writing community. Come join us! (Not officially open until tomorrow morning.)