You have two options when everybody tells you not to do something:
• Listen to their wisdom and spare yourself heartache and pain.
• Or chart your own course, and prove the world is round, rather than burrito-shaped, as the ancients believed.
I’ve got something to say that isn’t rude, crude or otherwise socially unacceptable. My instincts say you’ll read it and say, “Hey, Scott, I feel you, dude.”
And please, don’t hesitate to call me Scott or dude, especially if you read until the end without getting angry.
My wife and co-workers are 100 percent positive what I plan to say will upset you. By “you,” they mean all y’all.
Context matters, they say. Nothing exists in a vacuum, they say. Timing is everything, they say.
All good points, so I’ve tried to focus on other topics, like my infatuation with “Lily,” the sweet and no-nonsense manager on the AT&T commercials.
I’m captivated by her, but when I attempt to explain why, it comes off as rude, crude and socially unacceptable.
Here we are – you, me and my co-workers – back where we started with something I want to say but you might despise.
We would’ve had no trouble if it’d run two weeks ago, but events didn’t happen until after the April 28 tornado.
One of the greatest failings of humanity is we believe our worst mistakes are behind us. I try to keep that in mind and know I’m capable of making massive blunders, especially when people around me are waving red flags and shouting “No!”
They haven’t actually shouted, but my fellows at the Mighty Daily Journal have had their fun mocking me over this.
Now, you see why I can’t back down.
It’s my hat, y’all, the crimson and white baseball cap I’ve had for a string of winning seasons. It’s perfectly faded with artfully arranged sweat stains.
It’s the first thing I put on each morning to hide my scraggly mess of hair, and it works for mowing the yard, walking on a beach and visiting the in-laws.
It’s my hat, and I’ve never owned its like before.
I should say, it was my hat.
At an early hour on Sunday morning, my son came to the bed, held up the hat and said, “Swinter did it.”
Swinter is the puppy we got for Christmas, and I’d foolishly left the cap in her path.
Insignificant, I know, especially compared to what friends and neighbors are enduring.
The others could be right, and it’s rude, crude and socially unacceptable at this point in Lee County history to write about a hat becoming a gnarled chew toy.
Except ever since I saw the expression on my son’s face and the waggly tail on that dog, I’ve known I was going to tell you all about it.
What’s more? I knew in my heart that you’d understand.
M. Scott Morris is a Daily Journal feature writer. Contact him at email@example.com or (662) 678-1589.