This brown‑eyed, thoroughly average man has
officially survived another work week — a true triumph worthy of a parade, or
at least a chicken biscuit. Now I’m staring down a list of honey‑do tasks
before I can officially declare today a “me day.”…
except for a tiny bit of monkey
business. I’m planning to sneak out to a few local yard sales — very hush‑hush,
very undercover… sshhh, this mission is strictly classified from the wife.
Yesterday I even slipped out of work early under the noble banner of “running errands.” which, to be fair, I technically did. … But while I was out, a few thrift stores mysteriously appeared in my path — as they do — and I wandered in. Shockingly, I actually found some records worth grabbing — a rare event, since those bins usually look like a retirement home for unwanted polka albums.
Naturally, right as I’m feeling victorious, my phone rings. It’s my wife, casually asking
if I’m at the grocery store yet? Meanwhile, I’m standing in the thrift store holding vinyl like a kid caught with both hands in the cookie jar. My “other mission” had not yet been
disclosed.
Busted. Absolutely, undeniably busted.