More Strange Stuff I Complete After Sex

I don’t know about you, but I love to let my mind wander after a particularly good lovemaking session.

In that period of time between when you drift off to sleep and when you’re done doing the deed, the thoughts just flow freely.  Sometimes I get up and take a shower. Sometimes I fall asleep knowing that if we both wake up at the same time, it may be time to take another ride around the world.

But when I’m just lying there thinking about things, weird stuff goes through my head. Does that ever happen to you?  It happens to me all the time.

I was listening to my mother talk on the phone the other day and it struck me just how silly the when-I-was-your-age conversations can be.

When I was your age, we didn’t have it so good.

We had only thirteen channels of basic cable. I used to have to cross the living room — uphill, in the snow, both ways — just to turn the channel or change the volume.

We sat too close to televisions that were about three feet deep while absorbing those thirteen channels, constantly standing and sitting when our fathers used us as human slaves to adjust volume from the other end of the living room. I probably absorbed enough rads that my children will be born with three arms — and they still won’t appreciate what I went through at their ages.

We had a really big, aesthetically unpleasant microwave whose touch-sensitive buttons didn’t always work. I had video games, just like you — video games in which one block pushed another block across a screen so the block on the opposite side could send the middle block back to the first block. This looked nothing like the cover art for the video game box, of course, which was an oil painting of two sweating tennis players with rippling muscles smashing a ball between them. Those were tough times, young man.

Worse, we were still expected to GO OUTSIDE at that age.

My parents spent my entire childhood trying to kill me. They sent me out on my bicycle without any pads or helmet at all. Imagine that — I rode all over the neighborhood on my orange banana-seat bike, my head exposed to traumatic brain injury, my knees and elbows completely unarmored against the asphalt and gravel. My contemporaries did the same. I knew one kid who fell off his bike and hit his head. We worried about him a lot and wondered why, oh WHY, society did not do something about the mortal peril in which we found ourselves daily.

We went to the playground and climbed jungle gyms mounted on concrete slabs. The jungle gyms were fifteen hundred feet high and topped with barbed wire. Well, okay, they weren’t quite that bad, but they were still high up enough that none of us were surprised at the grim fates awaiting us when Billy Simmons fell off and broke his arm and showed up in second grade wearing a cast that we all autographed with trembling hands.

To tell you the truth, it’s a miracle I’m even alive and relatively intact at my age. Listen well, young fellow — for when you’re my age you’re going to have to think of something to tell your children about how bad you’ve got it now.

But that’s just a thought.

There are other thoughts that ramble through my head as I lie here in post-coital bliss.

For example, sometimes I think about sexy, tanned construction workers.

This is because I am in the wrong business, and I realize this.

What I should be doing is wearing a blaze orange jumper over my tanned and prematurely cancerous skin as I stand by the side of the road digging holes in it for no apparent reason. I want to do this because I miss my childhood.

Working road construction, you see, is exactly like Nursery School. You go there every day according to a set schedule, but it doesn’t really matter if you miss a day because no one has any defined responsibilities. Your relatives know that you go there and that you’re supposed to be doing something, but they’re not really sure exactly what that might be. As long as you look busy when they come to pick you up at the end of the day, they figure you spent your time productively.

Have you seen those guys working road construction with that metal wheel on the end of a stick? Looks official and scientific, doesn’t it? Don’t know what they’re doing with that wheel on a stick, do you? I’ll tell you why — it’s because that wheel on a stick is the equivalent of that plastic bubble on wheels with the moving, popping, colored plastic pieces in it that is also on a stick. You used to push that thing around in Nursery School to watch the plastic pieces inside the bubble move around, but the toy didn’t really do anything. That wheel on a stick doesn’t really do anything, either — it must makes the operator look busy.

When you’re a kid in Nursery School they teach you that no matter what you do, everything is okay as long as you say you’re sorry. You’re, what, four years old? Nobody’s going to hold you accountable, even if you stab a kid in the face with a pencil while pretending to sword fight with Ticonderoga Number 2s, as long as you show remorse while they’re taking Alex off to the Nurse.

When you work construction, it doesn’t matter how much you tear up the road inexplicably, how much you delay everyone, or where you set detours that get people lost in exactly those areas lacking easily divined alternate routes. No, as long as you put out orange cones, you’ve apologized to the world for your idiocy. Nobody will hold you accountable. After all, you’ve got cones and you don’t know any better, and boy do you look busy out there in the hot sun.

End Construction, Thank You For Your Patience.