My lawn mower (some would call it a grass cutter) has a priming problem. The priming bubble has a hole in it. It doesn't make a lot of difference to me. I learned quickly about the joys of starting fluid. It is an aerosol crystal meth for engines. A couple of shots, one good rip start, and I'm ready to cut.
That's a lot like how I like to start my summers. Prime the fun engine with something flamable, rip start the season with a good live show, and head into the summer months with a full head of fun steam. I rip started last Thursday night and feel pretty good about the months ahead.
It is traditionally this time of year when I shake off career concerns. I work for the play hours and play hard when they finally come. I hope this summer works as well as past summers have. I fear, however, that my fun times might be tempered by an incredible sense of loathing for my chosen profession. My fun engine died this morning after a weekend of running hard. The basic fear here...my fun priming bubble has a hole in it and I can't find a drop of starting fluid.
Sometimes when it feels like my lawn mower is dying, I distract it by lifting the blade off the tall grass or tilting the fuel resevior enough to make it cough back to life. I think my fun engine is in need of distraction.
So, my friends, ruminate with me about a life less frustrating...a life devoid of professional concerns. Mayhaps, my friends, I could be...
*A drunken, middle-aged bar singer. It takes talent to be a real musician. However, it takes little more than an ability to drink with the college kids and kick out a few cover tunes to be a drunken, middle-aged bar singer. One spends his days sipping on cheap beer and thinking of catchy/dirty song lyrics to lure in the college drunks and inspire them to nothing. I may just have that kind of skill.
*A stay at home husband. My wife has more professional/personal drive than I do. And while I pretend to know very little about housekeeping, I was trained by one of the best and can really hold my own (stop giggling) when I put my mind to it. Imagine it...a perpetually clean house. A gorgeous lawn appointed with arbors and fine roses. A finely-cooked meal each night of the week. And maybe I could start working out. Aerobics. Or maybe a Jenny Craig program. I could write a weekly soap opera digest for house husbands all over the country.
*A e-commerce entrepreneur. I'm thinking about selling undergarments with dogs on them. I think everybody likes to wear clothes with dogs on them, but nobody really wants anybody to see the pooch-wear. I could sell jack russell boxers. Great Dane thongs. Bras with puppies on the cups. I think it would all sell very well. Pooch Panties. Heh.
Okay, okay. Enough rumination. Lunch time is over and I have to go back to my job. But don't be surprised if--somewhere in the middle of a good rip start--you click on the internet and see PoochPanties.com. There's a future somewhere, my friends, and I intend to find it.
I really hope it is near a bar.