Scorched feet and sanity

Any sane person would have known that melting the bottom of my feet while going out to retrieve junk mail was just stupid. But since I seldom can be considered sane, the idea that I would just trot out to the mailbox to bring in the day's mail seemed like a good one.

Sadly, I had neglected to consider the roughly volcanic temperature of the driveway and street surfaces I would be required to cross.

The first half of the journey seemed relatively warm but nothing too bad. Afterall, I am a girl who is accustomed to the barefoot portion of life. And the mailbox, even considering the rural segment of the nation I call home, is hardly miles away.

I cracked open the mailbox and pulled out a couple of junk mail items worthy of only cursory attention, then went to retrieve the garbage can to return to the house. That is when the temperature inversion began. Warmth turned into pain and the bottom of my feet began to feel most unpleasant.

When I got back inside, it was evident that my feet could now be buttered because they were toast.

As to the ponderings of the rest of the day with my feet underneath the ceiling fan to cool off, I consoled myself by remembering that I had witnessed a moment of hilarity earlier that trumped my 3 seconds of walking on asphalt barefooted.

The garbage truck came by and the long armed claw reached out to grab the large green, wheeled bin and dump its contents into the white and smelly truck. The arm lifted the bin (with its wheels spinning aimlessly) higher and higher until, through a moment of what can only be termed accidental stupidity (much like toasting my own feet), the operator OPENED the claw and released not only the trash but the bin as well into the depths of the truck.

I about fell out laughing!

Then, the hapless operator, who is never technically supposed to have to touch the nasty garbage, was compelled to CLIMB INTO THE TRUCK amid the filth, dirty diapers, left over food scraps and assorted unmentionable leavings of society to pull my garbage bin back out of his smelly truck.

He was NOT a happy camper. I had tears streaming down my cheeks as I laughed out loud.

I was looking out the window as the can began to levitate over the side and be hurled to the ground by the now angry garbage truck driver, his lips were moving non-stop in phrases that were less than Christian. I couldn't hear him, but I certainly could read his lips very well.

I imagine climbing into his truck was as far from his mind as burning my feet was to me this morning at the crack of dawn.

Some days just aren't worth getting out of bed.