Twenty Four for an Hour

I went into the co-op office to drop off some triplogs today and ended up being 24 and driving to North Van. Normally I don’t work on weekends, but I was sort of making up for being deeply useless yesterday.

“Hey, want to drop a car at a new location in North Van?” Karen asked. She was joking. Well, I didn’t have anything else to do, so I said okay. It was a sunny day.

Doug, who is kind of my boss, came with me. Doug is a giant young man who favours orange safety overalls and is still too shy, after knowing me for more than a year, to look me in the eye. But, man, can he drive!

Doug led in his car, because he had the Blackberry, and knew where Cap College is. By led, I mean he floored it, and deked and wove and was seldom driving under 60. Well, I had to keep up, didn’t I? I don’t mean we were aggressive or irresponsible. Just…efficient. We were doing highway ballet. With cars.

And then >>WHAM<< I was 24, and racing around on the highways in the sunshine, just like I used to, and then we were lost in some godforsaken mountain burg where we saw horses and where buses never go, just like I used to, and then I had to get us unlost from the dead end, because boys think they have spatial relationships, but they just don’t look at maps and see where things are, just like I used to!

It was good, being 24 for an hour. 37 is a little slower-paced, though, and I like that.

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