The True Value of 30-Packs

I work strange hours. No, I will not tell you the exact hours. This is because I do not trust a single one of you to not try and sneak into my house when I’m away and attempt to abscond my Marvel Legends Icons twelve-inch masked Captain America action figure with over thirty points of articulation. This would not be such a great concern of mine if my wife would simply carry it on her person constantly in my absence like I’ve repeatedly asked of her, but I suppose she’s just too high and mighty to look after my good friend Steve Rogers while I’m out of the house.

Anyway, if you’re done prying into my personal business and can accept the limited description I’ve provided that I work strange hours, then I’ll tell you about something I did the other day that I’m not particularly proud of. Thank you.

I like beer. See, now that’s two things you know about me. Liking beer, I try to keep a little around the house for the times when drinking a cold one might strike my fancy. This happens often. When my work schedule interferes with keeping a beer stash in my house, it’s distressing. If you’ve ever longed for a beer only to know that there was no beer to be had, you know what I mean.

This is exactly what happened the other day. I knew I was out of beer, yet I felt I really needed one. I didn’t ask my wife to pick any up while I was away because it’s just not the kind of thing I ask her to do without me, like putting gas in the car or grilling. Looking after my prized action figure, however, is something I’ll ask her to do, but will she do that one little thing for me? Nooooo. So there I found myself with a need for beer and none available.

Also, it was seven o’clock in the morning. I think I left that part out. Anyway, there I was, at seven in the morning with my sons ready (early, mind you) to go to school and without the beer that I knew I was going to desperately want at a not so far off in the future point later in the day. So, what did I do? I only did what had to be done. I made a beer run.

Yes, that’s right Mr. Judgy McScruples, I made a beer run. With my six and eight year old sons in the back seat of the car, book bags packed full of spelling words and Lunchables, I made a beer run. I swallowed my pride, told the little voice in the back of my head to shut up, stopped at the 7-Eleven and I did what needed to be done.

When I returned to the car with a case of Blue Moon and an orange, then I drove them to school as if nothing unusual had happened. I took care of business. Everything that needed to be done got done and I got what I wanted.

My sons did not express the least bit of surprise. I’ll admit that when they acted as if this was the sort of thing I did every day, I found it a bit disconcerting. However, I got over it a short time later. Coincidentally, it was at the exact same time that the first of the beers I had bought started tasting so good.