Deep Shit

"Why?" pondered Louisa.

"Why, when it rains, does it pour?"

"Why, when you're standing in shit, is it knee-deep?"

"Why? Why, dammit, just when you thought, do you have to stop and think?"

Unfortunately, stopping and thinking was Louisa's plight.

In grade two, she'd stopped, one sunny September day, on the playground, at recess, to think about whether she really had to pee. She peed her pants.

In grade four, she'd stopped, one stupifyingly frigid day in November, on the way home from church, to think about whether she'd actually confessed all her sins to Father Burns. She froze the small toe on her left foot.

In grade six, she stopped, one cool March evening, during the gift opening at her cousin Elinor's birthday party, to think about whether Elinor would really appreciate the anatomically correct clay figure of her cousin she'd painstakingly sculpted. She got 7 stitches above her right eyebrow, after Elinor threw the statue at her head.

In university, she stopped, one windy July day, in the park, at bat, playing softball, to think about whether she should have worn underwear beneath her skirt. Or possibly, that she should have worn shorts. And underwear. She struck out and lost the game. But worse, was forever dubbed Dimples.

Then, the day. The day that Louisa stopped to think, to ponder. To wonder about raining, and standing in shit, and stopping to think. The day was neither warm, nor cold, nor breezy, nor bright and Louisa was merely walking (not pacing, or strolling, or strutting, or skipping) across a street when she stopped. To think. About thinking.

Louisa was hit by a bus. The number 10.

She stopped thinking, which frankly, was a relief.