I have a story about my husband. This video has no relevance to the story whatsoever, other than the fact that it is in fact my husband. He is Wii-boxing with his friend (who makes it into the shot at the very end of the video).
Yesterday, after a restless night, I awoke groggy and bleary-eyed. I went through my usual morning routine, but somehow managed to forget what is usually the very first step: moving my phone from my nightstand where the charger is, to my purse that I can't drive to work without as my keys are in it.
I made it to the end of the driveway (we have a long driveway), and skidded on some ice and was thinking about "What if I end up in a ditch?" when I realized I forgot my phone. I paused at the end of the driveway wondering, "Is it worth going back for it?" (of course, I was running late). Then I started replaying the ditch-scenario again, so of course I decided I better go back for it.
I put the car in reverse and (even though the car has a backup camera), I turned around to look behind me as I backed back down the driveway (the camera is great to keep you from running into objects, but isn't really efficient for navigation)(the image is skewed panorama-style, so it's hard to figure out where the hell you are).
I don't know if the story is hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-rock obvious at this point, but whatever you think I'm going to say, please try to let it go and just stay open. Don't skip to the end of the story, it takes the wind out of the author's sails.
Do you ever do that, or is it just me? I love reading so much, sometimes I get frustrated with my eyes and mind because I can't take in the page fast enough. I'll be so immersed into the story, I just can't wait to find out what happens next, and I get annoyed that my eyes are too slow. And I'm a fast reader! But apparently not fast enough because my gaze will involuntarily skip to the end to stop the torture of not knowing "What happens next."After all that, I'm sure you're wondering: what on earth did I see when I turned around and peered through my back window into the snow-washed, morning gloom?
It's wholly unsatisfying. Invariably it ruins the author's big climax, and I always wish I could have stayed patient. So, since I have learned that my eyeballs have no willpower, sometimes I will get a piece of paper (or I'll use my hand in a pinch) to put over the text so I'm forced to read it line-by-line.
The sky had just started to lighten, but it was so thick with snow-clouds that there was only the barest hint that Night had started to loosen its hold. Our orange flourescent light was still shedding more light then the sun, and it tinted the white walls of our carriage house the way it always does, but also the ground that was just barely dusted with snow. Everything was still and orange as I backed down the driveway, and it took a moment for me to register that a little piece of the orange and gray scene was moving slightly.
It was my husband, looking very little, very pink, and very shirtless, and he was standing at the other end of the driveway, trying to get my attention but shivering so hard his elbows were clenched to his body. He was only wearing shorts and sandals, and looked so small and lost . . . like maybe he wanted to run after the car but knew it wouldn't do any good.
He was holding my phone.