Life as a Scofflaw

It all started when, age five or so, I joined a neighborhood friend tossing clods of dirt into the street for cars to run over. It seemed like a good idea until an elderly woman stepped out of her house to scold us. Couldn’t she see it was fun? But I liked grandmother types and didn’t want them thinking poorly of me. I felt awful about the whole thing.

Forty-odd years later, here I am breaking the rules like a seasoned pro. If I wear a mask at the grocery store now it’s only because I hate to offend the grandmas, but I refuse to wear one outdoors. The other day I walked the dog after curfew (imposed for the riots) because, well, the dog needed it, and I delight in antisocial behavior.

Worse, the fam and I recently drove to the mountains and hiked a verboten trail. The trailhead parking lot was blocked but we left the car beside the highway and clambered over the barricades like dizzy-headed revolutionaries from Les Miserables. Sure, bloodthirsty coronavirus animalcules were no doubt lurking in the woods, but thug life is the only life for us.

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