Many years ago, when making the rent on my consignment shop was a major focus of the first few days of every month, I owned a Volvo.

I loved that Volvo. I miss it. I still have the Hoosier cabinet that fit into it with millimeters to spare that I won at auction and drove home over snow-packed southern Ohio hills.

But I digress. The point is:

I was a new consignment shop owner. I had ZERO dollars to spare. So when the mudflap on my beloved station wagon started impeding my forward motion on those hard-to-navigate roads, I called DuH.

My mudflaps are dragging! wept I.

They are holding me back! whimpered I.

Come DO something! I sobbed in my best 20-some and winsome voice.

So, realistic B##tard that he was, is, and evermore shall be, DuH came over and…

Ripped off my mudflaps.

Don’t need no stinking mudflaps, says he.

And right he was. Mudflaps were keeping me from reaching my potential (which, in a 1968 Volvo, would be 55 on a downhill slope) and did nothing but keep the mud from my…underchassis? Quarterpanel? Dohickie?…which is easily washed away in any case, wherever the heck it is.

Lesson learned: Don’t fret over details which have no meaning in your life.

Fly mudflap-less.

Elevate knowing there are no encumbrances.

Soar, once you have rid yourself of unnecessary, dragging, silly mudflaps.

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