Tormented By A Fickle Sense Of Common Sense

There are times when Common Sense has left me. Just up and left, as if called away suddenly by an urgent matter that was far more important than whatever it was I might have need of Common Sense for.

Invariably, that would happen at the same time that good ol' Mr. Poor Judgment would stop by for a visit.

Yep, ol' Poor Judgment would just show himself in, arrogant as all get out, help himself to whatever's in the fridge, plop down on the sofa, put his feet on the coffee table, and swill the last of the JD.

And while Common Sense was away, Poor Judgment would not only make himself right at home, he would pretty much take over the place, going so far as to invite his buddies, Impulsive Action and Ignorant O'Consequences, over for a little bar-be-que.

Those three in the same head are not simply a recipe for disaster, they are a formula for such high-grade calamity it would scare Gustavo Fring into looking under the bed.   

And, as regular as a car-bomb going off in Baghdad, just after those three clowns have wrought as much damage as possible, Common Sense decides to pop back in.

It goes something like this: Common Sense bails. Poor Judgment shows up with the great idea of, say, deciding to get a hot tub. Then Impulsive Action not only agrees, but posits the idea that money could be saved if I built the concrete pad and little gazebo shelter for it all by myself, and Ignorant O'Consequences chimes in with the thought that it all could probably be done in a weekend.

About halfway into the undertaking, but well past the chance to pull out and minimize the damage to pocketbook, back, arms and shoulders (as well as mental well-being) is when Common Sense strolls in whistling "Can't Hardly Wait" and then stops and stares at the half-finished mess.

Taking in the hot tub sitting in the yard next to the deck, the 8 foot by 8 foot by 6 inch deep hole that has been dug for the pad (and all the dirt in piles over by the back fence), the plans drawn up for the little gazebo shelter (and the materials to build such stacked next to the hot tub), Common Sense lets out a long, low whistle and with a pained sigh says, "Man, this looks like a lot of work. I'm pretty sure it would have been much easier and cheaper to just join 24 Hour Fitness and soak in the hot tub there."

Screw you Common Sense, screw you. I want my own damn hot tub.