Yesterday, in my jaunts about Hillmomba, I came to a 4-way stop. It's not the creepy 5-way stop by the motorcycle business across from the fire house, or the 3-way stop by the insurance business that used to be a Head Shop during my high school years. No, this was a 4-way stop by the nursing home and furniture store, on the newest section of roadway that connects to the interstate highway.
You know what a 4-way stop is. Four lanes of traffic, each with a left turn lane, come to a stop sign. Traffic takes turns in order of arrival at the stop sign. And here's where the outrage begins. A dude driving a Pepsi truck motioned for me to go ahead. Oh, the nerve of him!
Because it was clearly my turn. How magnanimous of him to allow little ol' me to go before he did. What a grand gesture. Like royalty allowing a commoner to bask in his presence.
Such a gesture is akin to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom telling her students, "Go ahead and inhale my oxygen. I import it from the atmosphere and into my classroom just for you. No charge. It's my treat. Take a breath. You're welcome."
It's like when I tell Farmer H that I'm going to a Trivia Match on such and such a date. "That's fine. You can go." As if he has a say in it. I didn't ask permission. I know there's nothing on our busy social calendar for that night. If The Pony needs minding, I make arrangements with my mom. So where does Farmer H get off giving me permission to go? I don't need permission. I'm not a prisoner in my own Mansion.
It's the little things, people. The little things.