I said hello to this situation that never yields.

Every day on my way to work, I turn right at a stoplight. At this light, for whatever reason, I have a yield sign, so I am supposed to yield to the drivers approaching me who are turning left onto that same road. And, nearly every morning, I try to yield and am honked at impatiently by either the drivers behind me or the drivers who are wanting to turn left and are waiting for me. Even though, according to the law, I am supposed to be waiting for them.

This is a very frustrating situation. Every once in a while, I’m like, “Screw it, I’m not yielding!” And then I get honked at by the person turning left, who thinks I should have yielded. There is no way to win. This is not the kind of stress I need on my way to work. I was complaining about this to Mike last night, and he reminded me that the point is just to keep the flow of traffic, and if I’m holding up traffic, I should just go. In response, I told him that the yield sign is my new metaphor for life: I try to do the right thing, and it never works out. He did not approve.

Last night we were talking about baseball and somehow we got on the subject of Johnny Damon. I said that there are things I wouldn’t do even if lots and lots of money was offered to me, and playing for the Yankees is one of them (I would be so unhappy living up north, for one thing). Mike asked me if I’d cheer for the Yankees if I was offered money, and after a certain amount, I agreed that I would. I mean, I hate the Yankees, and I wouldn’t want to play for them, but . . . I’m not really eligible. So, if my daily life could be improved by cheering for the Yankees once, then, I think I could do that. For the right price. And then, Mike got evil. He said, “What if Duke and Carolina were playing in the national championship game and someone offered you a billion dollars if Duke won. Would you cheer for Duke?”

I told him no.

He went kind of ballistic.

Seriously, though. It’s the national championship. For a lesser game, say, the ACC tournament, then, eh, probably. Give me the billion. That’s just a game, and a billion is a lot of money. I’d get over it in a year or so. But to see Carolina beat Duke in the national championship, that’s worth a billion dollars in my heart.

He did not understand. And accused me of not caring about providing for our family. In this hypothetical situation. Which would never happen, because I hope people have better things to do with a billion dollars than offer me money to pull for Duke. He thinks that if I saw the hypothetical billion dollars, I’d change my mind. But my hypothetical conscience is clear.

Now I have to figure out what to do with the information that my husband would sell his soul to Satan for a billion dollars. It’s a sad sad day in our house.

(Y’all. It’s the NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. I cannot be expected to cheer against my team for a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. Not for any amount of money.)

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