Saturday, May 17, 2008

Small Town, Clogged Highways

Oh, the wonderful joy of a small vacation town on a long weekend. Retirees who left Toronto on Tuesday arrived in Bobcaygeon last night, intent on clogging the highways on Saturday. Most of them have forgotten that some of us continue working on Saturday, and that work helps support their federal cost today. Ah yes, I do enjoy the thought that somewhere there is a slower pace of life, and a small piece of it lives in the minds and hearts of these retirees. Unfortunately, I have to continue supporting the struggling oil companies today. I'm almost weeping, thinking of those poor execs struggling to keep a company afloat with only a multi-billion dollar quarterly profit to show for their labour. Oh, the humanity! Won't somebody please think of the childen?

Sorry about that. I rabbit trail frequently.

You probably think that I'm over-reacting to the retirees. Does 65 km/hr ON THE HIGHWAY sound like over-reacting? I don't give such people the finger when I'm finally able to pass, but sometimes I can't help giving them The Eye. Not that it helps, but I do need to get to my destination before tomorrow night.

On my way back from Peterborough, because I felt particularly sorry for the oil execs this morning, it started to rain. Rain is a terribly dangerous thing on the highway. Why, it's more slippery than ice, likely to take your windshield out, and I heard that it almost killed Dan Quayle. At least that must be the case, since normally sane drivers are seized by an apparently contagious fear of it. I gave up passing after the third one, because every time I only succeeded in catching the next guy doing 75k. I suppose that they might have a good reason. Their tires could be bald, but by those calculations most of the cars on the road are in dire straights. Whatever, life somehow keeps trickling along, and in Ontario, I do mean that.

Am I being too bitter? I can look at the full side of the glass: at least I'm not stuck in Wasaga Beach. Don't worry. I don't mind sitting in a real cafe, enjoying the chatter around me, and yes, talking with the retirees. There's something catchy about the ones who've travelled before me, wandering roads that I think I'm the first to discover. They've "been there, done that", and there's a certain earned relaxation to their demeanor. I imagine that when you've been through the struggles of life and survived, there just doesn't seem to be much point in hurrying anymore. I might enjoy being there myself one day.

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