Guilty as charged!
Only 3 weeks ago, my wife came coyly to me, gently and coaxingly trying to convince me to buy a new bed for our master bedroom.
Immediately, my mind translated her coos into figures, and, as I hurriedly changed the subject, I took my thoughts into my existing bed and pondered:
(My existing monthly resources)-(The price of a new master bed)=Not much
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a lovely National Match M1 Garand was resting, homeless, on the rack of the local gunshop, surrounded by such unworthy peers as second-hand Savage bolt-action rifles, sporterized WWII cut-downs and, worst of all, a 45-70 Handi-rifle.
The day after, I consulted my conscience, and my inner version of the Oracle of Delphi promptly replied: "You already have a bed. You do not have a National Match M1 Garand".
As stealthily as I could, I bushwacked my way across town to the gunstore, produced the necessary documents, filled out the "yeller" form, and, looking away in guilt, coughed up the four-digits. I then bushwacked my way back home, where the relieved M1 was introduced to the much more fashionable crowd in my gun-vault.
Later on that night, the anticipation at the dinner table was noticeable and intense. Finally, the much dreaded words broke the silence: "So, have you decided about the new bed"?
Oh, my God. I hadn't thought about a reply. "Uuh, w..well, uugh... (I grasped for a good off-the-cuff way out of this one)... Actually, I thought I would have to...uuh... You know that I have to put the car through.... Yes, the emission test, and lately the muffler seemed to make a little more noise than usual, and the smell, I bet the gasoline is not fully burned, so I probably won't pass it, and will have to get it fixed...." (I know I had lost her here.)
She bowed her head in that mixture of disappointment and reluctant understanding. The car (thank God for cars, I thought), would get the priority over the bed for this month. I had made it.
Later that week, as she was tidying up the house and she happened to enter the gun-closet, she seemed to pause for a fraction of a second. Her knowledge of "her nest" was trying to tell her that the volume of walnut and blued steel in there had slightly increased. But no, it had to be an optical illusion.
Once more, I had made it. My conscience always pays a "guilt tax" that is directly proportional to the value of the gun, and this time it was no exception. But for a nice National Match M1, doggone, it was worth it.
Familiar scenario?
Only 3 weeks ago, my wife came coyly to me, gently and coaxingly trying to convince me to buy a new bed for our master bedroom.
Immediately, my mind translated her coos into figures, and, as I hurriedly changed the subject, I took my thoughts into my existing bed and pondered:
(My existing monthly resources)-(The price of a new master bed)=Not much
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a lovely National Match M1 Garand was resting, homeless, on the rack of the local gunshop, surrounded by such unworthy peers as second-hand Savage bolt-action rifles, sporterized WWII cut-downs and, worst of all, a 45-70 Handi-rifle.
The day after, I consulted my conscience, and my inner version of the Oracle of Delphi promptly replied: "You already have a bed. You do not have a National Match M1 Garand".
As stealthily as I could, I bushwacked my way across town to the gunstore, produced the necessary documents, filled out the "yeller" form, and, looking away in guilt, coughed up the four-digits. I then bushwacked my way back home, where the relieved M1 was introduced to the much more fashionable crowd in my gun-vault.
Later on that night, the anticipation at the dinner table was noticeable and intense. Finally, the much dreaded words broke the silence: "So, have you decided about the new bed"?
Oh, my God. I hadn't thought about a reply. "Uuh, w..well, uugh... (I grasped for a good off-the-cuff way out of this one)... Actually, I thought I would have to...uuh... You know that I have to put the car through.... Yes, the emission test, and lately the muffler seemed to make a little more noise than usual, and the smell, I bet the gasoline is not fully burned, so I probably won't pass it, and will have to get it fixed...." (I know I had lost her here.)
She bowed her head in that mixture of disappointment and reluctant understanding. The car (thank God for cars, I thought), would get the priority over the bed for this month. I had made it.
Later that week, as she was tidying up the house and she happened to enter the gun-closet, she seemed to pause for a fraction of a second. Her knowledge of "her nest" was trying to tell her that the volume of walnut and blued steel in there had slightly increased. But no, it had to be an optical illusion.
Once more, I had made it. My conscience always pays a "guilt tax" that is directly proportional to the value of the gun, and this time it was no exception. But for a nice National Match M1, doggone, it was worth it.
Familiar scenario?
Just make sure those bill of sales are stashed away