"I'm from Missouri."

"But the Midwest has Aldi, which means I get cheap ice cream!"

On the San Diego bus a few days ago, the driver asked to see the date on my ticket. I held up my ticket, and he said, rather snappishly, that I was holding up the wrong side. I laughed sheepishly and resorted to my ever-useful excuse: “I’m from Missouri.”

This excuse works wonders, no matter where I’m traveling or what I happen to be doing. It’s a useful answer to any of these questions:

“Why are you so out of breath walking up this hill?”

“Why are you eating pizza for breakfast?”

“Why is your German accent so appalling?”

“Why don’t you know which bus stop you’re getting off at?”

“Why are you wearing a fanny pack?”

“Why don’t you have any idea what’s going on around you?”

Nobody knows where Missouri is anyway. As far as most people are concerned, I was raised in a shack made out of corn stalks and rode a tractor to my one-room schoolhouse every day after slopping the cows. 

The best part about this excuse is that people underestimate me. And that’s always a good thing when you’re on the road.

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