Every time I walk into my kitchen, there is an ant on the counter. Just one, meandering across the little square of Formica between the stove and the sink. Never on any other part of the countertop. Never more than one. Every time I see the lone ant, I can’t help but wonder.
Well, first I squish it…then I wonder.
Why only one? Why not twenty-three? Ants are not, by nature, solitary creatures. They’re supposed to travel in armies. So who is this single ant? A scout, sent ahead to determine the lay of the land? Or, um, countertop, as the case may be. If I don’t squish that solitary ant, will he whip out a teeny little bugle and summon the charge of thousands?
Or maybe it’s some kind of hazing ritual. Down there under my stove, there could be an entire ant college, complete with ant fraternities, and miniscule ant kegs, and at some point some idiot has to say, “I bet I could make it across the counter.”
That would explain why they never travel in a straight line.
Of course, I don’t spend my entire day in the kitchen. My husband would argue that I have been known to let days pass without showing my face there. So it’s possible the ants file across the countertop one by one, all day long, and it’s only the occasional unlucky bastard who happens to get caught.
Squish. “Oh, shoot, we shoulda warned Bob that she always passes through here at six in the morning and five thirty in the afternoon. Ah, well. Hey, George! Your turn.”
I suppose you’re wondering if there’s a point to all this. There is. Last weekend, my husband got into my Jeep, turned it on, and pitched a fit.
“It’s five degrees outside, there’s blowing and drifting snow, the roads are crap, and you’re driving around on empty? What are you thinking?”
Now you know.
Kari Lynn Dell
For more of what I’ve been thinking, visit http://www.montanaforreal.blogspot.com