Unlike a real minefield this is one you can build up a resistance to. What used to blow off a leg now just means I need to brush my pants clean. The metaphor fails in extended application.
Today I'm positively giddy with excitement. A new (but very good) friend and consummate professional is joining me and some of my other consummately professional friends (also very good) for two days of recording sessions. I sprang awake at 5:15am with the sort of enthusiasm I usually reserve for Christmas.
And I wondered, casting my mind back to my early years "when Dad was 43, was he ever giddy with Christmas-morning-esque enthusiasm?"
[CHING-KLICK] goes the pressure plate to the mine I've just stepped on.
"No," I say to myself in irritation. "This isn't 'I miss Dad,' this is a serious question. Do you ever remember him being giddy?"
I ponder the matter, poring through the jumbled mess of poorly indexed memories from twenty-five, thirty, and thirty-five years ago.
"No," I reply. "I don't."
Did it explode because I can't remember something I should, or because I wish my Dad had been a happier person? Regardless, I'm going to need to change these pants.