The Conversion of Blue

- I was riding my bike. Downhill? Yes. Too fast? Ummm, Plead 'The Fifth'. Anyway, it was too late to stop when she opened the mailbox. I mean, who knew that those blue mailboxes had swingy doors that open out? So she opens the door, gets behind it, and all I can think is that if I don't kill her, maybe I can get a date, and with a postal worker none-the-less. By the time rationality caught up enough to arrest and detain that thought, it was really too late to stop. So I did what any guy in my situation would do, I aimed the bike into the yard she was kneeled in front of, and bailed onto the grass. Hey, it seemed like a good idea.

- The problem with good ideas in 'too-late' situations is that they're rarely as good as they seem. The first indicator of this was the sprinkler head that was twisting it's imprint into my rib-cage. The second was a strangely slow moving blue Volvo. I swear it wasn't there when I put the bike on autopilot, but now, somehow, there it was. And my red, twenty-one speed mountain bike was making a bee-line for the driveway it occupied. I couldn't look...

So I shut my eyes. (Blue.) It was shortly after I crashed that I began to feel the philosophical section of my psyche awaken and growl. Well, I thought, the mail slot is blue, the Volvo is blue, the sky...my knees are wobbinging and knocking now. They soon will be blue. The postal worker noticed my spread eagle, contemplative position on the lawn. She let her eyes wander over me without appearing to be examining me at all. Maybe she noticed the azure socks I was wearing. Probably not. By this time my arms felt more comfortable under my head so I rested them there. My ankles were feeling stiff, so I crossed them. The neighbor's blue healer began to sniff at my socks. The postal worker walked away, her blue pants creased at the knees. Not that I could see her knees, she was walking away--I noticed this more clearly when she was kneeling and looking at me with her deep cobalt eyes, which weren't really looking at me at all. She was just rechecking the house number. Really. I feel I'm losing my point. The philosophy. So here it comes. The hill, six blue houses lined it. The bike, blue spangled handlebars (okay, so my sister pranked me and I haven't gotten around to defanging the sparklers). The mailbox, well, postal blue. Her eyes, ah yes, her eyes. They too. Mesmerizing. Tantalizing. But they weren't looking at me. Just philosophizing the house number, really. My socks, well said. The dog's collar, sapphire-studded, but I wasn't looking at the blue healer. I was for the duration gazing at the sky. Which needless to say, is the entire reason--not the girl, forget the girl--for my accident. And for my depth of thought. And perhaps for all of the meaning in my very, very, simple life.
You thought I was done! Aha! But here is the most winsome part of all. It is the part when four of my comrades emerge from blue house # 5 and begin a straight-forward but reminiscent conversion of textile (movable, philosophical) grammarian terminology with me...