I have nearly lost faith in the human race. Well not entirely, but to be honest, I think we've become lazy to a point of no return.
I've been combating a nasty sinus infection for the last few days and needed to make a quick trip to the local Wal Mart in search of some good old over the counter relief. The words 'quick' and 'Wal Mart' should never be used in the same sentence. Upon my arrival at the store, I drove slowly toward the entrance closest to the pharmacy and the Mucinex. Suddenly, and without warning, a middle aged woman pranced confidently off the sidewalk and into the middle of the road. I was in the area directly in front of the store that is painted with yellow lines designating it a safe zone for pedestrians. I smiled slightly and motioned for the woman to continue, as I knew she had the right-of-way. She responded by smiling slightly and holding her outstretched arm toward me with her palm up as if to say, "I know I have the right-of-way, so you'll just have to wait...buster." So, I waited. And waited some more. Finally, a car zoomed up and she hopped in. She gave me a gentle wave as if I had planned to sit in the middle of the road for five minutes. I'm sure the parade of vehicles behind me were glad to see he go as well. She could have easily walked to the Wal Mart in the next town in the time she stood waiting for her ride to show up.
Next, I turned into the parking lot only to be stopped by a car idling in front of me. It became obvious that the person piloting that car was waiting for someone to exit their parking spot, which was very close to the store entrance. It became painfully obvious that I was once again going to be sitting for a while. The car that occupied the parking space was driver less. The rear of the car was occupied by an elderly gentleman unloading an overflowing shopping cart into the trunk of the car. There were several vacant spaces mere yards from where we sat. Again, I waited. To that point, I had over fifteen minutes of my life chewed up in a parking lot and had traveled a grand total of sixty feet! Finally, the gentleman backed from his space and drove away. The car in front of me sped into the space. I drove the extra twenty feet and parked. I was eager to see who the parking lot perpetrator was, so I quickly sprang from my car and noticed a guy who was probably half my age slowly exit his car. He was typing away on a cell phone as he walked in the direction of the store. I could have parked at my house and walked to Wal Mart in the time I waited behind this guy!
Thankfully, I was able to grab the medicine I needed and make a run for my car. Upon my arrival at the car, I was greeted by a shopping cart. Someone had decided that the cart rack was just too far to travel, and thus left their cart behind my car. Nice. I put the cart in it's proper place and went home.
Last night, my wife informed me that her Kindle Fire had gone on to that electronics place in the sky. I'm not one to give up without a fight, so I took the gadget apart in a feeble attempt to find the problem. No luck. So, today I bought her a new one and she was exceptionally grateful. She told me so in a text message she'd sent from the adjacent room. To be completely candid, she did tell me in person many times, but...
"Dad, will you hand me my backpack?" Sidney asked from the comfort of the recliner in our family room.
"Sure, where is it?"
"Beside the chair."
I scrunched my face and stared at her for a few seconds. "Why don't you get it?"
She gave me her most sorrowful look. "Because, I'm soooo comfortable and I don't feel like having to put down the footrest to reach it." I handed the kid her backpack although I did shake my head as I walked into the kitchen.
My phone buzzed again and I casually leaned over to read the newest text that had showed up. "There's soup in the fridge. You'll have to heat it up." My wife had struck again, except this time it came from the far reaches of the second floor of our home. I strode to the refrigerator, and found the soup. I thought that soup would be a fine dinner with my sinus problems and all, so I ladled a healthy portion into a bowl and opened the microwave. "What the..."
"Oh yeah, I made a pot pie last night, but it was so hot I couldn't get it out of the microwave. By the time it cooled I wasn't hungry anymore," Ryan said. The boy had crept into the kitchen unnoticed in search of sustenance and was digging in the cabinets for who knows what.
"Last night?! The pot pie has been sitting in the microwave for a solid day?"
He could sense my disapproval and stopped pilfering the cabinets for a moment. "I mean, I can eat it if you want."
I didn't answer right away, because my head was shaking again. "No, I don't want you to eat it, but why didn't you throw it away?" I asked, not having the energy to launch my wasting food speech once again. I grabbed the pot pie and carefully opened the trash can.
There was no answer. The boy had retreated back into his man cave as silently as he had appeared.
My phone buzzed once again. "Will you bring me some cheese?" the text said. Ryan had struck. He had somehow sneaked away with a loaf of bread, lunch meat and a drink. He had forgotten a slice of cheese.
"No," I texted back.
"That's ok, I don't need cheese anyway. Thanks." came the instantaneous reply.
Finally, I heated my bowl of vegetable soup. I carried it into the adjoining family room and sat down. An eerie feeling swept over me. The television remote was missing! I stood and surveyed the room. I didn't see the gadget anywhere. I began to panic! In a flash I removed the couch cushions, crawled around on the floor, and finally bellowed at the top of my lungs, "Has anyone seen the remote control!" I got no reply. Fearing that I would actually have to get up and turn on the T.V. manually, let alone change the channels, I barked again. "I said, has anyone seen the remote control?!" Immediately, I got a response... on my phone.
"Have not seen it," from Kristi.
"Look in the couch," from Sidney.
"I think I do want cheese after all," from Ryan.
There's no doubt about it. We are a very lazy species.
