Surfing or Storm Doors

Comedy is based on tragedy and you can laugh you ass off on the fact that I am seriously debating the title of this post. I'm up in the air between a short jaunt to somewhere warmer, sunnier and more disposed to scantily clad women than this place and a new storm door for the knob and tube palace.

Of course, along with the portal would come a replacement hardwood floor for the upstairs bedroom and the raw materials for a new garage door.

Are we living it up, or what?!

I'm either getting older, or sensible or both. And I like neither option.

To top things off, this morning's cholesterol screening puts my BP in a happy place, HDL/LDL numbers below where they need to be and triglycerides circling some far M class planet because, let's face it, the damn things sound like an alien race. I don't know what they do and I ain't interested enough to tap into web MD.

In short, my ten year heart attack risk is one stinking percent. Average risk for bunnies my age is seven percent. Just going to have to find a new way to kill myself. Maybe the Ethopian Space Program is still looking for volunteers.

So I thought I'd celebrate my newfound longevity with a short jaunt somewhere.

But where?

Naturally, first thing in my mind is sun, surf, pool girl attendents and open bars. Uh huh, Margaritaville.

Then the house gives me a quizzical look that seems to say "You gonna leave this pressed Budweiser can on my front door all summer, boy?"

Uh, no.

"Git a move on down to the despot."

But I wanna go somewhere.

"The despot is somewhere. Now go!"

Aw geez.

See the trouble is that every conspicuous purchase right now looks like a big fat case of middle age crazy. Cars? Forget it. I've been looking at a ballsy, black Mustang for the longest time because in winter it snows here and the abject terror of a heavy rear wheel drive gets my blood pumping. If the ticker won't give out, can I ride the automotive razor edge in January?

Right. Like I can't see the fingers pointing now with pursed lips muttering "All he needs is some blonde he rented for the hour."

Wrong-o!

I'd rent to the half hour. No sense in falsely impressing anyone for a full sixty minutes.

Hell, if I came home with a toaster oven right now, I'd be middle age crazy for the first sourdough slab I put in. I can't win.

So I'm measuring door openings instead of melting down an Orbitz or Travelocity server.

Sigh.

Bunny on, and hand me that phillips head, would you?