🕳️ I Put Safety Cones Around Wonderland (#363)
Some holes are clearly accidents. Others are apparently literature.
It had begun as a normal walk, by which I mean I was carrying coffee, avoiding eye contact with joggers, and trying to remember whether I had left toast in the toaster or merely imagined toast as an emotional support concept.
The park was peaceful. Birds were chirping. Dogs were dragging their owners toward questionable smells. Somewhere in the distance, a man was doing tai chi with the confidence of someone whose knees had not yet filed a complaint.
I was almost calm.
This is usually when literature attacks.
That was when I found the hole.
A large, unmarked hole in the ground.
No cones. No signage. No laminated explanation. Just a dark invitation to become someone else’s cautionary tale.
Now, I am not what most people would call a safety professional. I once attempted to remove a smoke detector battery by hitting it with a loaf of sourdough.
But even I know that a mysterious hole in the middle of a public footpath is a liability. So I did what any responsible citizen would do.
I bought seven orange safety cones.
🚧 Public Service, Private Consequences
The hole was surprisingly deep. I couldn’t see the bottom.
I dropped a pebble into it. Several seconds later I heard what sounded like a teacup breaking and someone shouting, “We’re late!”
That seemed concerning.
So I arranged the cones in a neat circle and added a sign that read:
CAUTION: MAY LEAD TO PERSONAL INSIGHT
I felt quite proud of myself. The park looked safer already.
To be thorough, I added a second sign.
RABBIT ACCESS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
Then a third.
FALLING HOURS: 9:00 AM TO 5:00 PM
Safety, in my experience, is largely an issue of paperwork. If something dangerous has enough signs around it, people begin to assume it is organized.
That was when the rabbit arrived.
🐇 The Rabbit Had Objections
The rabbit was wearing a waistcoat. I feel this is important.
Animals rarely dress formally unless something has gone terribly wrong.
He skidded to a stop in front of the cones.
“Oh no,” he said.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “Very safe now.”
He stared at me. Then at the cones. Then back at me.
“You’ve blocked the entrance.”
“Exactly.”
“The girl is supposed to fall down there.”
I considered this.
“That seems like a design flaw.”
The rabbit checked a pocket watch.
“Without the fall, the entire story collapses.”
“Stories should not depend on unguarded holes.”
“This one does,” said the rabbit.
“Have you considered a staircase?”
“No.”
“A ramp?”
“No.”
“A pamphlet explaining the experience in advance?”
The rabbit looked horrified.
“That would ruin everything.”
“That is exactly what someone says right before a lawsuit.”
The rabbit looked genuinely distressed. I looked genuinely reasonable.
History suggests this is a dangerous combination.
🎩 Regulatory Challenges
Within the hour, several concerned parties arrived. A man in a hat informed me the cones were sitting on his tea table. A caterpillar demanded to see my permit.
I did not have one.
This turned out to be a mistake.
Within minutes I was seated before what appeared to be a Wonderland zoning committee. The committee consisted of three flamingos, a dormouse, and a teapot. The teapot chaired the meeting. I have attended real committees that made less sense.
The flamingos wished to know whether I had completed the proper forms for cone placement.
I asked whether such forms existed.
They admitted they did not.
The dormouse nevertheless felt strongly that I should have completed them.
The meeting adjourned without resolving anything, which gave it an air of authenticity.
As I was leaving, a cat appeared in a tree and asked whether I had considered that confusion might be the point.
I had not.
I generally assume confusion is evidence that someone misplaced the instructions.
The cat smiled.
“That’s because you’re from the other place.”
“The other place?”
“The place where everything has to make sense.”
I started to object.
Then I remembered I once spent twenty minutes looking for my glasses while wearing them.
So perhaps “make sense” was an ambitious description.
The cat’s smile widened.
“Wonderland doesn’t run on sense.”
“What does it run on?”
The cat considered this.
“Momentum, mostly.”
I disliked that answer immediately.
🍰 The Problem with Wonderland
Eventually Alice arrived.
She was carrying the expression of someone who had recently followed a rabbit and regretted absolutely nothing.
“Why are there cones around the rabbit hole?” she asked.
“Safety.”
She looked at the hole. Then at me. Then at the hole again.
“But that’s how you get to Wonderland.”
“That is not a sentence that reassures me.”
She sighed. The way only a child can sigh when an adult is being spectacularly adult.
“You’re not supposed to stop people from falling in.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s how adventures start.”
“Most adventures begin with poor judgment,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“That does not strengthen your case.”
Alice pointed at the hole.
“Would you have climbed into it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you would have missed Wonderland.”
I dislike logic when it is used against me.
I dislike admitting when children are correct. It creates expectations.
But I had to concede she had a point.
Every interesting thing that had ever happened to me began with a decision that looked questionable from the outside. Moving across the country. Writing a book. Buying a shirt that says REGRET IS MY CO-PILOT.
None of these would have passed a proper risk assessment.
🧦 Some Holes Are Doorways
I sat beside the cones for a while and thought about it.
The truth is, I like certainty. I like maps. Labels. Instructions. Warranty information.
I once read the manual for a toaster voluntarily. Twice.
The first time was to learn how the toaster worked.
The second time was because I suspected the toaster knew something I didn’t.
In fairness, it has consistently produced better outcomes than several people I have trusted.
But most of the important things in life arrive looking suspicious.
Friendships. Love. New jobs. New ideas. Creative projects. The first chapter of a book. The first day after a loss. The first day before a change.
From a distance, they all resemble holes in the ground.
You cannot always tell whether you’re about to discover Wonderland or simply twist an ankle.
The uncertainty is part of the admission price.
Which feels unfair. But then again, so do parking tickets.
🧡 The Compromise
In the end, I removed all the cones except one. Not enough to stop anyone. Just enough to make the hole feel seen.
Not as a warning.
As a reminder.
The rabbit seemed satisfied.
Before leaving, he handed me a small card.
It read:
OFFICIAL WONDERLAND SAFETY INSPECTOR
Below that, in smaller print:
PLEASE STOP HELPING
I considered this one of the more balanced performance reviews I have received.
Alice disappeared into the hole. The cat vanished one smile at a time.
And I sat on a nearby bench wondering whether growth is just another word for “voluntarily entering situations you do not fully understand.”
I suspect it is.
Though I would still prefer a brochure.
🧂 Crumb of Meaning
You cannot make every rabbit hole safe.
Sometimes the best you can do is label the danger honestly, bring snacks, and decide whether you’re willing to fall on purpose.
🤖 Disclaimer
This article was developed with assistance from a large language model that believes orange safety cones are an acceptable substitute for existential preparation. No rabbits were delayed more than twenty narrative minutes. Any resemblance to actual personal growth is entirely your responsibility.
🍪 Serving Suggestion
If you encounter a mysterious hole today, do not immediately jump into it.
Pause. Have a snack.
Then make an informed bad decision.
If you don’t know by now that you should buy the t-shirt, I don’t know what to tell you.
Check out the Thaddeus J. Butterwell line of merch!
Coming Soon!
The book you didn’t know you needed… because denial is one of your core coping skills.
The astute among you may notice the cover has slightly changed.
