Wednesday, May 5, 2010

“For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it.”

It's not as if he gave a fig what I have to say, but Isaac Newton missed out on part of the laws of nature. Sure, he said that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Then he and his cousin Wayne mixed ammonia and bleach and ran off laughing like crazy.*

But I like to think that for every action, there was a lot of action behind the scenes. It's nice to go to a nice wedding reception, bull roast or retirement gathering, isn't it? You waltz in, hang up your coat, head for the cheese table and grab a pitcher o' suds, and you're ready for a big time. Just remember, a lot of planning goes into these things, not the least of which is figuring who is to be seated at which table. Somebody has to sit there next to that woman from Accounting who will fill her purse with silverware, salt and pepper shakers, the centerpiece, a huge end slice of lasagna in a cleverly concealed Ziploc bag, and the Purell dispenser from the ladies' room wall, if she can yank it down.

And leading up to all these events, there are bands to hire, menus to choose, photographers to've been there. You know what I mean. It's one of my secret Mental Jotto things to do, figuring out the logistics behind what comes off so artfully simple.

It would be nice
just to see something and say, how nice that is, and go on to the next thing. I just have to figure out the "how" behind the "how cool!"

And so it is that, on my way to work this morning on busily-traveled, still-rural Cromwell Bridge Road, I saw that some romantic had painted a rather well-represented heart right on the road. You know, not a drawing of a real heart, but one of these
things that we use to represent the ol' ticker.

We know that this artwork was accomplished late at night, because there is a rather steady stream of vehicles on that road all day and into the night. In my imaginary scenario ("imaginario"?) some dude is telling his girl he really really really loves her.

[It should be noted that Cromwell Bridge Road leads to the Loch Raven watershed area, where young couples have parked for years to enjoy the submarine races.]

But she balks, right? She's not so sure he loves her, not after the way he was leering at Ursula the other night. So what can he do? He can't carve their initials into a tree, if only because if you're caught carrying a jackknife with you these days you are deemed to be a potential terrorist. He's not about to spring for a tattoo, because that costs a couple of hundred semolians, and he needs parental permission anyway. Sky writing might do the trick, but it can't be seen at night. Radio stations don't take requests any more, and his last alternative - a text reading "I <3 U Mildred" would scarcely stand out among the 127 other texts she is receiving at that very second.

So he
pulls over, stops the car, and gets out, shaking a can of Krylon. As Mildred watches in rapt adoration, he makes his heart sign on the blacktop in vivid Antique White, all the better to show his enduring love for her.

And the bonus is that every guy who drives over Cromwell Bridge Road for the next few days can tell his special squeeze that HE did it, just for her. Go ahead and say it! I'll never tell.

* Don't try this at home. Running off like crazy OR mixing a base with an alkali!

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