Next Stop, Willoughby

A simple trip to the post office turned into a nightmare situation.  All I wanted to do was mail a letter.  One letter.  Just one.  Is that too much to ask?  Apparently.  I turned on my humble bumpy street, a street requiring an all-terrain vehicle, snow tires and chains to make it across without destroying the SJG's suspension of disbelief.  (See, hubby!  Who says I don't know jack sh*t about cars?!) At the end of my own private Grand Canyon, there was a sign that said... say it with me now: Road Closed.  Of course, it was closed.  God forbid, it should be open.  The city was repaving the part of the street I don't live on.  You know how personally I take these things. Who said life is fair?  So, fine.  I turned around, cursing the street repair mavens, and attempted to turn on the next street.  Oh, but I couldn't.  There was a sign that said... say it with me now:  Road Closed.  Every street, same thing.  Road Closed.  The universe was playing a funny on the SJG.  Ha ha ha, universe.  Ha, ha!

Well, I don't know about you, but whenever I hit a road block, a giant WTF of inconvenience, I calm myself with images of Willoughby, "a peaceful, restful place, where a man [or SJG] can slow down to a walk and live his [or her] life full measure."  "A Stop at Willoughby" is one of my favorite "Twilight Zone" episodes.  Maybe you've seen it.  A stressed-out ad man dozes off on the train, and wakes up to find himself in 1888. Sweet!  He rambles 'round the happy little town and never wants to leave.  Can you blame him?  Driving in circles, hitting deadend after deadend, I wondered what the post office would be like in Willoughby.   Probably much easier to get to than my own.  But don't you worry.  I found a way. I disobeyed the signs.  I went rogue.  You heard me.  This Short Jewish Rebel drove past the detour. Ignored authority.  I made it to the post office, defiantly!  Take that, universe.  Ha ha, yourself.  I have no idea how I made it home, however.  I woke up in my office chair.