Hittin' the trail

I played "Oregon Trail" on my way to work this morning.

Instead of wading across a river with my horse-drawn wagon, praying me and my family and all my belongings wouldn’t drown, I drove over ice-covered bridges very very slowly hoping I wouldn’t slide into the river below.

Instead of dead cattle along the sides of the path, there were pieces of cars. Bumpers, hubcaps, shards of glass from windows, strewn throughout the shoulders. Almost like tumbleweeds in some strange winter desert. My office was the mirage. In some cases there were whole cars, including their drivers, stuck in the ditch.

No. Natives didn’t attack, but other drivers did. Not with arrows but spinouts.

And no, I didn’t battle influenza or snake bites, but after an hour and 30 minutes I fought the need to go to the bathroom. Real bad.

I didn’t fear twisters, but heat stroke inside my car (wearing three layers to combat the -30 windchills outside! I thought my scarf might suffocate me at about the hour, forty minute-mark.)

I’m happy to report that I won the game. I managed to make it to Oregon—err, work—in not months, weeks or days, but only one hour and 45 minutes! Me and my wagon arrived safely.

But more snow is on the way, and the frigid temps are to continue. So tomorrow I'll hit "play again."