Two thirty p.m. Yesterday. I am in deep sleep. The bedroom door opens. It's Jason. "Sorry to wake you, but I have a Danny update." (My son who is on leave and driving in from Norfolk, VA).
"He just called. He was in an accident on I-95, but he's okay."
Great. I'm awake now.
"I just thought you'd want to know right away."
Good idea. So much for sleep. I get up, dial the man-child's cell phone and get no answer. The logical part of me is thinking he is talking to the cops or the tow truck driver. The mother/psychotic part of me is thinking he'd actually fractured his neck and getting up just severed the spinal cord and he's so much toast laying on the side of the Interstate with cars whizzing by at 100mph.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he calls back. All is well. He has a bruise on his leg. His truck has a broken head light and he is back on the road again.
After telling him he could not drive one mile above any posted speed limit and he was not allowed to change his CD or answer his cell phone while driving, I gave up on sleep and brewed up a pot of coffee.
Off to work I went at 7pm. At 9pm, he called to let me know he'd made it home in one piece. We celebrated at work by Googling up George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic and dancing. Which led to some reminiscing about the good old days of high school and disco and the original KGG club and dancing with the fellows who treated us like little sisters.
But by 4a.m., my tune had changed to "I'm to sleepy for my job, too sleepy for my job, too sleepy."
And now that I am home and the man-child is home safe, I'm going to wake him up and beat him. Because I'm allowed.
Thor sez: There's something strange going on here.