The Big Rubber Band

Rubber Check: a check that is worthless because of insufficient funds in the drawer's account (from the notion that it "bounces").

I watched a documentary once about aircraft carriers. Not to be too technical about it, but my understanding of the process of launching the planes off the deck of the carrier is that the army men move the plane into position, hook a Big Rubber Band onto the back of it, then fling it off the end of the ship like they're operating a big sling shot. It must be quite a thrill to be in one of those planes.

After they hook up to the Big Rubber Band but before they get flung the jets lock their brakes and rev their engines up to full power, preparing to "floor it" when the army men activate the Big Rubber Band and the pilots take their foot off the brake, or whatever they have their foot on to make sure the plane stays put. I'm sure I've made the process a little more complicated than it actually is but you get the picture.

This is what I used to do as I nodded off at red lights late at night. "Why won't this car go forward?" I'd think, as I sat there with one foot on the brake and one foot on the gas and one foot on the clutch, listening to the engine make horrible noises that I couldn't easily explain.

"Wow, that's me," I remarked to SuperK.

"What's you?" she asked. "The plane that you can't fly or the boat that you can't sail?"

I feel like that jet most of the time. I feel like my engine is cranked up to full power and I'm ready to blast off. Most days I wake up in the morning, open my eyes, and I'm already at full power. And my rubber band shoots me right into the day irregardless of what's in front of me. It's OK when my jet is pointed in the right direction; it's less fun when there's a brick wall in front of me, or someone else's jet airplane. Sometimes there's a brick wall in a bramble patch hidden by some sticker bushes.

"No! NO!" I shout to the army men. "Hang on to the Big Rubber Band!"

Whoosh.