Stupiditity

I hate it. I really do. Of all my pet peeves—and I got a boatload of ‘em—stupidity may be my All-Time Number One.

Now, anyone who knows me—and most who don’t—will see the humor in this immediately. Because I’m stupid. Really, really stupid. And I prove it several times a day.

But that’s the point. And maybe that’s why I have such a low tolerance for it, because I’m so guilty of it myself oh so often.

That’s why I was so upset about getting that ticket. Because it was just stupid. I was nailed and justly so. All’s I had to do was look at the windshield at any point during that five month period. But I didn’t. Which was stupid. And repeatedly so.

Or take today, for instance. Friend Lisa came over to borrow our little kiddie slide—you know, one of them colorful Fisher-Price plastic jobbies. One of her kids is having a birthday party and she thought it’d come in handy.

So she pulls up in her minivan, but the slide's pretty big, so it won’t fit inside comfortably. She looks at the little crossbar underneath the slide which connects to the steps and stabilizes it and asks if that’s removable, and if so, maybe the whole thing folds up.

Now, I suspect we’re like most people in this regard: once you set up this little kiddie slide, you don’t break it down again until you’re done with it, which’ll probably be several years hence. So even if we’d been the one to set it up—which we weren’t, having acquired it for five bucks at our local yard sale a few years back—I doubt we’d have noticed or touched the crossbar in the ensuing years.

But I tip it on its side and try to wiggle it loose. But after who knows how many years, it’s in there pretty good. So I try again. Nothing. But rather than finesse it or see if I'm missing a little latch or something, I whack it. With my shoe. Which had my foot in it at the time. And sure enough, the crossbar pops loose. Only it’s not lookin’ quite so steady no more.

So I fold the whole thing up and stick it in pal Lisa’s van and for the three hours since I’ve been kicking myself. Because I’m pretty sure I broke the damn thing. Not all the way, perhaps—it looked as though I’d only cracked it rather than totally demolished it and rumor has it the slide can be seen hanging out in Lisa’s yard even as I type—but enough that its lifespan has been shortened considerably.

And it was just so stupid. And so pointless. And although our girls don’t really use the slide much anymore, they and the neighbors use it some. And maybe The Boy would have in another few months or a year or something; it’s mighty hard to predict his schedule. Or we could have given it away. Them slides are solid buggers and built to last—assuming a big stupid fatherfigure doesn’t flip ‘em over and kick their asses. So now the slide’s more likely to be taking up room in the landfill for the next ten thousand years a decade ahead of schedule rather than providing exercise and fun for kids, as it was meant to.

That makes me unhappy. Which is another thing I hate.