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I have a ball cap that reads “Scars Are Tattoos With Better Stories”. I like that hat ’cause I generally believe this to be true since most tattoos are generally the result of something that seemed like a good idea at the time and scars tend to be something else entirely.

But’cha know what? I was walking down one of the main thoroughfares of the hospital last week and I ended up stalled behind a radiologist leading this frail little old lady down the hallway to MRI. Teeny and tiny, she was probably all of 80 lbs. sopping wet.

As I got closer and tried to pass them I noticed that this frail little old granny lady had blurred, bleary, tired old tattoos on her arms and legs. And I was like, wow, that’s weirdly interesting. Then she accidentally dropped her crumpled pack of cigarettes and when she bent over to pick them up, her ill-fitting KISS t-shirt drooped away from her scrawny chest and I saw she had tattoos on her shriveled up old lady boobs too.

Ewww. I WAS SO NOT LOOKING AT HER BOOBS, OK?

But so anyway.

So I passed them by and moved on with my life and presumably they moved on with theirs but it made me wonder- what kinda strange and possibly interesting life had that little old lady led that had resulted in all those now indistinct blue-black blobby tattoos?

Maybe sometimes tattoos can have a good story too, ya know?

I mean, c’mon, who doesn’t wanna know HER story?

Don’t lie.

Miss Carol and me have been having a time lately with our moms.

I’d love to say I’m this tough guy that doesn’t care, that scorns softness and fragility, that says- hey it’ll work itself out, that grabs another beer and pushes out down to the beach and gazes fondly out at the bikini babes tanning in the late afternoon sun whilst sipping suds and thinking blandly.

I long to be that guy.

I do.

But I can’t.

So, yeah.

Miss Carol and me’s moms are having differing and probably progressively downward spiraling problems that will, I am sure, chew into my heart and what little free time I might have dreamed of having.

But, ya know?, I love them both.

So as much as I want to be the frothy-beer-swilling-bikini-watching-total-denial-thingy-dude?

I just can’t.

I was sitting and whispering to myself that I was working and that I was actually getting something done, when Tug came into the Me Only Room and plopped down.

I swiveled to face him.

So, he said.

Tug’s always deep and solemn and he looked at me deeply and solemnly and said- you gonna do this?  And he shifted from paw to paw.

Do what, I said.

You gonna take this tractor trailerin’ course and leave us? he said.

Don’t seem right he said.

And then he sat. Waiting. Panting slightly and looking around like dogs do.

Dude, I said, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just trying to think ahead. I’m just thinkin’ it might not be a good idea to get my CDL.

Hmmm he growled shifting and focusing.

Have you thought this through? he asked.

Whaddya mean? I asked Tug.

He paused and licked himself and then he said is this escapism?

And I said in a small voice. Maybe.

He stood up and shook himself out and said- you’re a turd.

And then he ambled off.

This is gonna sound terribly politically incorrect but nice is wearing thin on me.

Not the nice of friends and family. Not the heartfelt goodness that wells up from the people you hold dear.

I’m talkin’ about the forced ceramic-glass-like nice imposed by banks and gas stations and grocery store owners.

The “How are you today, my name is whatever, and I’ll be helping you today and holding your hand through the scary bank deposit you’re making and can I possibly do anything else for you while I flash fake smiles and seem actually interested in your life and your day” kinda niceness.

Implants are less false.

I find myself yearning for more humaness. A yawn, a stifled groan, a muttered fuck you would be preferable to all this glossy vacuousness.

It’s ok to fart, people.

Yeah.

So I made the decision.

There are lots and lots of pros and cons and there was lots and lots of overthinking the whole thing.

But when it comes right down to it- I wanna do it. I want to drive these big motherfuckers.

And I don’t know why. I just wanna.

So I’m gonna.

Dudes this is just fucking magic.

I know. I know. My credibility withers daily but this is the best shit I’ve read in a long, long time.

Don’t get me wrong.

There were times when I was reading The Tiger’s Wife wondering why I was.

Miss Carol would look at me and go- do you like that book?

And I’d go, no?

‘Cause I wasn’t sure. It was cool and really well written, but I just wasn’t getting it.

And then it all clicked.

Like a smooth bore sliding home it slid in.

And it’s fricking magic.

Whew.

So, yeah. This was pretty much my holiday weekend.

Is it any wonder I didn’t post on Monday?

Is it any wonder I’m barely posting now?

More as short term memory coalesces. Or re-coalesces. Or whatever.

Decades and centuries ago I told my granny that I was thinking of driving dynamite across to the Eastern Shore.

Ooooh, stop, she twittered (back when twittering was something different) and patted my hand affectionately and told me she loved me and smiled up at me like grannies do.

But I was. Seriously thinking about it, I mean.

But then the years and years and years zipped by in gale force winds while I did other things.

But then.

In the last coupla months the dream has somehow re-kindled and taken root. And now its gnawing obsessiveness is becoming a siren song, something I’m not sure I can ignore much longer.

Dudes, I’m thinkin’ about getting my CDL and driving a tractor trailer. Not local, and maybe not long haul, but, yeah, maybe long haul. I know me. I could never drive local, and regional might be a stretch boring-wise, but, man the long haul lure is there and the hook is tight.

Escapism as epiphany, ya know?

I meant to talk to Miss Carol about this again tonight and break it to her, but it was her birthday and we did other stuff and I forgot so she’ll probably read this instead.

Ooooohh. That’ll be fun.

Granny’s grinning.