As I’m driving home from my weekly Costco pick up of pizza and flowers for Tasha, I’m cruising through the residential Erin Ridge area of St. Albert to avoid the lights on the trail (seriously city planners, I swear the inability to sync the lights is on purpose by now...).
Since it’s 15 out I am of course, in the mustang. The windows are down, the stereo is up, the orgasmic cacophony of a straight piped coyote is bathing the upper echelon of St. Albert’s “Huge House, Huger Mortgage, No Yard” club into a voluntold state of bliss. I’m happily smiling with just the right degree of smugness.
As I round the bend I see a couple walking with their infants in what I can only describe as “Tiny Human Front Satchels”. The male looks at me as I drive by, the mirror like finish of a three stage deep red paint job showing his self-imposed front satchel baby bump, with what I can only describe as equal parts remorse and regret. Like a dog who just saw another, better dog, take their favorite chew toy away from him. I blipped the throttle in salute to his sacrifice.
It was glorious. My smile grew three sizes that day.