Tomorrow is my son's Pinewood Derby race for Cub Scouts. It is a long, tedious affair that is well suited to the male mindset. Consisting of mostly guys hanging around, racing these little wooden cars down an inclined track with the help of only gravity, it is only mildly more exciting than watching paint dry.
Towards the end of this day-long ordeal are the open class races in which anyone can race. My husband and daughter always enter these races while I sit quietly in a corner knitting or otherwise nodding off. The weigh-in for this event is tonight, which includes meticulously weighing and measuring each car and putting them in a vault somewhere so you can't alter them in the hours before the race. Whatever. This is way too serious for me.
My husband, who works about 400 miles away all week, didn't get his car done, so it was just a big block of wood and four tires. He asked if I could help him out, so I transformed it into a sleek and stylish racer. OK, maybe not sleek. I emerged from the shop and called my children to come and look at my creation. They eyed it with great consternation. Right now they are calling the local mental health line for advice.
They have suggested to me that I may be a little depressed. This is possible. In the meantime, I will look forward to tomorrow's Pinewood Derby with the anticipation I usually reserve only for things like root canals and visits from my inlaws. Please wake me when they announce the winner.