A long story about Amy placing warning cones at a hole in a bridge. There. Now you don't have to waste time reading this. You're welcome.

Believe or not, there was a time when I, more or less, minded my own business, and did not spend the bulk of my waking hours obsessively worrying about every problem known to man. But here we are.

And there we were...walking our dogs along the track bed near our house. Our daily moment of peaceful solitude...away from the video conferencing, the news, the endless cycle of grading from students who submit work as early as 6:30 in the morning until 10 o'clock at night. Between the early birds and the night owls, I am starting to go koo-koo!

So as the dachshund stopped every second step to sniff single blades of grass and the rottweiler warned us to limit our walk to a half mile or her hips would hurt, we approached a bridge and noticed a sizable hole caused by a rotted-out, cracked beam. The previous night's rain had added to the growing problem by softening the soil around the puppy-sized pothole from which we had to shoo away our curious canines.

"What about all the four-wheelers and dirt bikes?" I fretted. Brad pointed to the "No wheeled vehicles" sign that graced the trail...the one everyone ignored, the one that we laughed at regularly as we walked (and occasionally, rode) past it, the one that might as well be invisible. "People know that it's a bikers beware trail," he said callously...heartlessly, as we headed home to save Juno's hips, "They ride safely and responsibly at reasonable speeds," he assured me as we stopped for several more single-blade-of-grass sniffing sessions. "They do not," I protested, pausing to straighten the "No wheeled vehicle" sign. I inspected it. Maybe I should plant some petunias at the base of it. Or maybe a nice climbing vine would promote readability.

Bedtime brought the brainstorming. Obviously, I lacked the engineering and carpentry skills necessary to address the cracked beam issue myself. I Googled the Army Corp of Engineers but apparently locks and dams are more of a priority than a rickety old country bridge that isn't approved for free-wheeling fun. I poked Brad at 2 am. "Wha-at?" he mumbled, grumpy but not surprised. This was actually turning into our new relationship routine. "Do we have day-glow, fluorescent paint?" I asked. "No," he said, rolling over. "Don't you want to ask me why I want day-glow, fluorescent paint?" I beseeched his back. "No," he answered, his head buried under the pillow.

An hour later, I poked him again. He thrashed about immaturely for a moment but asked me what I wanted after I poked him enough times to determine he was, indeed, fresh. "How do we get a traffic cone?" I wondered if the swiping of one from a construction site would balance out this minor infraction of the 8th Commandment if it were for the greater good. I'm trying to save lives here. He sighed. Heavily. "We have small soccer cones from when the girls were in school." Delighted, I dozed off. Brad remained awake though, his rest ruined.

The next day, after Brad tiredly dug the cones out from under a Jenga-pile of dusty, unused sports equipment, we headed off to plant our protective posts. I stooped to pick up rocks from our driveway to fill the cones. "What are you doing?" my husband asked. I resisted the impulse of saying, "Saving lives" and explained, instead, how I was weighing down the cones so they wouldn't get blown over. Instead of complimenting how clever I was, he decided to quiz me. "What are the track beds lined with?" he challenged. I decided not to answer "Good intentions" and silently dumped the rocks back onto the driveway.

"So...are you happy?" Brad asked after I was done fussing with the perfect placement of my warning cones. "No thanks to you," I snapped, glancing back to check their visibility from afar. "You were right," he said, in a vain attempt to appease me, "This couldn't hurt. And you never know, it might help to avoid an accident."

"Whatever, Mr. Bikers Beware," I told him, "If, when we die, this good deed ends up on your list, I am tattling on you to Saint Peter." "Wow," he said, halting suddenly, "I feel bad enough already. You don't need to PYLON about it."