I was driving the super-cool minivan out to Minnesota today with the windows down because the air conditioner decided that I needed some fresh air instead. As I drove I noticed a bunch of evidence strewn about from the tornadic activity last week. A stainless steel cupola from the top of a barn sitting in the middle of a plowed field upright as if the barn got swallowed by quicksand caught my eye. I unsafely fumbled for my phone to take a picture when I drove through some kind of miniature dust storm. It was over before I could roll the window up.
I looked down at my normal pristine dashboard and happened to notice the odometer at 99999 miles. Already holding the phone in camera mode I felt like it was fate.
Before any of you amateur safety officials out there get your undies in a bunch the speed limit in that particular leg of my trip was 70 miles per hour. I was following my standard 8 miles over protocol. If I get a ticket for +8 then I deserve it for speeding past Barney Fife having a bad day. Or, in a more likely scenario, my mouth would actually be responsible for the citation. Either way I’m good with the risk and all potential outcomes short of my ending up in a twisted pile of silver Honda.
And now my phone is telling me that there are more than sixty emails requesting my eyeballs. I love windshield time but it definitely backs up the electronic communication pipeline. Time to get to work and begin enjoying my petcation.