driving over here

Caleb, sporting the “you must be on leave” facial hair

Last week we went out to eat together at our favorite local haunt, Cheddar’s. It was crowded, as usual. It was scrumptious and worth the wait, as usual. By the time we left the restaurant, it was past bedtime, and we were trudging across the parking lot with Jack and Jon dead on their feet. Looking back, I’m not surprised that I was the only one who noticed the large pothole marring the asphalt behind and to the right of our car. Someone had covered it up with an enormous traffic cone.

How kind of them…

And that was the last thought I had about the cone. That is, until we reversed out of the parking space, pulled forward…

He’s going to miss it…

I think he’s going to miss it…

Is he going to miss it?

He’s going to HIT IT!!!

CRUNCH

The funny thing about traffic cones—they’re big and orange and made to get your attention so you don’t hit them, but on the chance one ends up in your blind spot, expect a horrid screeching sound as it pancakes under your tire, then pops right back into upright position as if nothing ever happened.

After the fact, the car was eerily silent all the way home. Just as we exited the interstate, Caleb speaks.

“Out on missions in Iraq, we’d run the MRAPs right over the traffic cones all the time.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh. Iraqi police would put out these huge traffic cones, and we just drove right over them like they weren’t even there and… What?”

“Some habits are better left in Iraq.”