On Lube and Love

This morning I was melting some butter on the stove. I lifted the frying pan and angled it to distribute the butter more evenly. There was one lone pat of butter that had yet to melt, so it traveled around pan, leaving a trail of “lube” in its wake. And I started to snicker.

Many years ago, back in the days where I was prone to anxiety bouts, I was having trouble sleeping on a family vacation at the beach. Eventually I gave up the futile strategy of lying in bed and went outside for some fresh air.

My father, always the night owl, was outside sitting on a bench. He was overlooking a long wooden patio. I sat down next to him.

He took a drag off a cigarette. “See that slug over there?”

I didn’t see it at first. But then I caught the street lights glistening in a small sliver of slime. I followed its squiggly path until it dead ended at a small slug right smack in the middle of the patio. The slug was still and with its contracted antenna, it was looking rather dejected.

“He hasn’t moved in 10 minutes.” Dad’s voice started to get more animated, “Maybe he went all that way and ran out of lube! He’s stuck!” And then my father started to laugh, “He’s sitting there thinking, ‘Christ! I’m outta lube!‘”

Before I knew it my father was cackling speculating on this poor slug’s predicament, stranded in the middle of no where, out of lube.

And maybe it’s because “lube” is an inherently funny word. Or maybe it’s because I always found my father’s laugh to be infectious. But before I knew it, I was cackling too.

When the conversation ended (with the slug still in the same spot), I had no trouble going inside and falling asleep, though my chest did ache from all the laughing.

All over a slug.

So thanks Dad, thanks Slug, thanks Butter Slime on a Frying Pan. Thank you for a happy memory to kick off my day!

(Photo By Andrew E. Larsen)