This winter has taken a toll on the roads. I can't blame them but their response to the barrage of snow and freezing has been acne. Huge pores of missing asphalt are spattered along every street between my house and the grocery store. I feel like I am trying to navigate through a pinball machine, or if you are under forty, a video game.
Probably the overall safety goes down a notch when all the drivers are watching the pavement instead of the cars.
It is unreasonable but I both want them repaired and prefer not to be slowed down by men in bright orange vests holding stop signs. Can't have it both ways I suppose.
The trouble with fixing potholes is that people keep wanting to drive. There are the over achieving construction efforts to haul in high powered lights and work at three
am but mostly they clog traffic during rush hour.
There are potholes in my marriage. The other day John was in a perfectly calm mood when I suggested that I expropriate his shed, which merely houses a few rakes and unused bikes, as a second chicken coop. His heart rate doubled. I am not sure why I was under the illusion he would go for it.
Tax season is upon us. That is a long standing pothole for us. Thirty three years is not enough
time to have filled that one in with cement. Mostly I find reasons to be anywhere else, after I hand over the pile of crucial documents. Last year was a first though. I don't think we barked at each other once. Who knows. Maybe this year we will even smile at each other on April 14th.
Probably every relationship has its no trespassing signs in florescent green. Maybe it is best to follow a detour sometimes.
