Cone-y

My Husby had as secret longing.

Oh, it wasn't a bad thing--unless you were the one purchasing the replacements. And, as I frequently pointed out, someone had to.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby had a secret yearning to run over traffic cones.

You heard me right.

He had always wanted to run them over.

I don't know why.

Because they're there?

Because they silently direct his life?

Because they forbid entrance?

All of the above?

But the fact remained that he would dearly have loved to run one over.

And probably would, if he weren't married to me, the person who happily kept him on the straight and narrow.

“Honey, you're getting a bit close.”

“Honey, you'd better move back into the middle of the lane.”

“AAAHHH! HONEY, YOU'RE GOING TO HIT ONE OF THOSE CONES!!!

Driving with us was an interesting experience.

Moving on . . .

He finally gave in to his urge.

But not in the way you may think.

No.

He went out and bought himself a cone of his very own. For two days, it sat on my kitchen table where he could admire it. Then it found its permanent home in the center of our driveway, close to the garage entrance.

I stared at it.

Then at him. What on earth was he thinking?

I soon found out.

Every night when he came home from work, he drove over it, flattening it completely.

Then, when he backed out in the morning, it sprang back upright ready and waiting to welcome him home once more.

He was a happy man.

And who knew those things were so tough?

If I had found out sooner, I might have let him hit a couple.

Not.

Now, with that taken care of, all that's left is deciding what to do about my secret urge.

To drive through one of those little wooden barriers that they put across restricted roads.

I'll keep you posted.