First things first: frog buckets is a real thing, not some folksy euphemism you say when your AmEx bill exceeds 12 pages. No, frog buckets is…or more correctly…are…a sincerely kind means of transporting hordes of amphibians across a country road for some sweet froggy lovin’. You see, if left to their own rather limited and hormonally-charged devices, hundreds of these frogs wouldn’t make it across the road, resulting in what’s called, DOR’s (dead on road) or more casually, “splats.”
So, what does this have to do with me, you might ask? (Or maybe not if you laughed extra hard at the “splats” designation.) What do hundreds of earnest volunteers carrying bucket loads of spotted leopard frogs back & forth across a quiet country road for the sole purpose of creating more spotted leopard frogs possibly mean to anybody?
Well, here’s what I’m thinking: don’t we all secretly hope for someone with a big, figurative bucket to rescue our collective asses from time-to-time? Someone who’ll spot us by the side of the road, floundering about, aimlessly drifting, wishing we were across the street having a good time? I know I do. And some days, we don’t even know if what’s on the other side of the road is half as wonderful as what awaits the average frog. But like that frog, we’d be willing to jump in a bucket to find out. No one really wants to be a splat.
Trouble is, frog bucketeers are few & far between. And ending up a splat on the road of life is an all-too real concern, one that I take very seriously these days. It’s not that I think I’m owed a free bucket ride across the proverbial street, it’s just that I’d sleep better at night knowing there was a back-up pail waiting for me, should I require one.
Some people like to imagine they have a personal guardian angel; an entity divinely assigned to them for just such purposes. Trust me, if there was some friendly spirit opening Life’s doors for me I think I’d have seen better real estate by now.
Maybe the point here is this: we have to have a back-up plan for getting across the road. Waiting for the bucket brigade to show up is akin to your chances of winning the lottery: slim to splat. Trust me, even the horniest of toads can get to the promised land if it means they have a chance to score.
So what’s the takeaway from all this rumination on frog crossing and the like? Do we wait for someone to help us in our time of need, like the tragic frog wanting only to get laid and back home in one piece? Or do we strike out on our own with the understanding that we might end-up DOR; yesterday’s splat?
Calculating the odds of stumbling across a friendly bucket guy willing to haul my butt into a better life, I’m guessing I’d better learn to walk faster.