Bubs and I watch too much television.
When I went to the gym — all of twice — I watched “Storage Wars”. Because it was playing on the TV screen attached to the only available elliptical and because I didn’t take the time to figure out how to change channels. I didn’t plan to exercise long enough for content to matter.
Thirty minutes later, the show was over and I opted to keep elliptical-ing rather than miss the next episode of “Storage Wars, the Marathon”.
My Wyoming Woodslady is a Storage Warrer. And when in Wyoming, we wanted to do as the Woodslady did. To war!! Elbows and epithets everywhere, please!
Politeness ruled, though. No name calling, no rudeness, no one even invaded another’s personal space. Turned out to be more of a girl fight, or a spat, or a tiff. The newspaper declared the main event to be five rounds — five storage units to auction away to the highest bidder — and to start at promptly 9:30am. “Getchyer seats early for this one, gonna be a doozy.” (I didn’t read the legal notice myself, I’m guessing at the extraneous detail. So really, only five units doesn’t allow for hostility, dang it…
9:25! We were there, the Woodsman, the Woodschild, and we two Okies, standing amidst a most lackluster group of bored, been-here-before jaded Warrers. But Bubs and I had all the anticipation they needed, bring on the bell!
Sure enough, the auctioning started in a language only hummingbirds understand — I heard only low rumbling sounds in staccato bursts of consonants, intermingled with “sold!” before moving to the next unit for sale. Quite expedient, these fast talking auctioneers…
About the third unit, Bubs became disenchanted and antsy. I had to threaten him bodily to prevent him from drawing attention to his restless limbs and inadvertently bidding on a naugahyde couch and ceramic leopard end table for “ngdngdndt” dollars. (Really, I understood only one syllable the auctioneer ever uttered, and that was because of the emphatic sibilant quality of the word “sold”; that’s all I had to go on to tell me to follow the herd to the next chute.)
But while assuring myself that Bubs wouldn’t buy a Star Wars anything, I myself found myself motionlessly but mentally willing a fly to go away and leave my nose in peace. I was one flutter away from flapping a hand into buying a ten by ten unit stuffed with truly ugly pressed cardboard nightstands and a print of Elvis in an unfortunate pantsuit.
By the time our group of bidders reached the fifth and final storage unit my Bubs had not-so-discreetly whispered four times that he was bored and, “this isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be.”
My Woodslady won her bidding scramble on a small unit with eight or ten little things and two inches of dirt to sweep. Painless cleanup and a few quality items to resell and at a mere five bucks — five!! — it was a worthwhile event.
Elapsed time, from parking the car to bidding on five units to cleaning out one of them to peeling away in search of beverages: thirty-two minutes.
And to think I could have accidentally exercised that long.