Sometimes, I am a bit impulsive. Last night, startled awake by a mysterious squeaky grinding sound, I checked on the children, glanced out the window, and spied an idling car parked in the middle of the street. Bolting out the front door and yelling at the car’s owner as he or she moved up and down the neighbor’s walkway was probably not the wisest idea. I did this without the expected wife-nudge that is supposed to be customary when there is a prowler in the middle of the night. You know what I mean… saying, “Hey, baby,” as you poke your spouse in the back, expecting him to club a stranger and duct tape him into obedience. All the while, the wife drifts back to sleep without so much as calling 911 or moving from the bed at all. No, this is not me.
My poor, patient spouse eased himself downstairs and into reconnaissance mode as I sat, post verbal-assault, twitching in the arm chair by the window. The prowler? Our newspaper delivery lady, who apparently parks in the middle of the street and walks the block to deliver the papers. Looking in the mirror before retiring for the rest of the night, I winced at the sight of me—my hair, bed-matted and spiky, and my robe hanging crookedly about my shoulders.
“Don’t people pitch the papers from the car window anymore?” I asked, as if this would explain my behavior. It doesn’t matter. I am just glad that the paper delivery was not sabotaged by the wild-haired neighborhood ninja.