Is everyone always in your way?

Maybe I have two left feet when it comes to zigging and zagging.

But it sure seems the entire world is determined to get in my way.

(“Nations must reverse declining birth rates! What if we drop below 8 billion people available to antagonize Tyree?”)

I am most keenly aware of the phenomenon at home. The Mills Brothers had it wrong with the song “You Always Hurt the One You Love.” Should’ve been “You Always Crowd the One You Love.”

Even with a small family, it seems to require an act of Congress to write on the calendar, procure a kitchen towel or use the bathroom mirror. (“Here’s your towel, but there’s a filibuster blocking your access to the soap dispenser.”)

My wife, son and pets possess an uncanny sixth sense for knowing exactly when to be in my path. (I want us to be on the same page, not the same floor tile.) Think of it as Spider-Man’s “Spidey sense” for detecting danger. (“Spring into action! He’s in danger of reaching a Band-Aid before he can bleed out!”)

“Let me sit there!” “I need that electrical outlet!” These cheerful greetings make me fear that someday my family will have the U.S. cavalry herd me onto a reservation and teach me English.

To be sure, prolonged delays (at the airport or doctor’s waiting room) can afford folks the opportunity to write a long-neglected “thank you” card or balance the checkbook; but what I encounter is a never-ending stream of 30-second and 60-second delays. It’s like productivity suffers death by a thousand cuts. I’ll bet that over the course of a lifetime, I’ve idled for a total of… well, someone is shaving between me and the calculator, so never mind.

Tailgating motorists also covet the space I’m trying to occupy. Maybe one of them will finally rear-end me and send me careening to my doom. If so, I’ll come back and haunt them as The Ghost of One Freakin’ Microsecond Farther Down the Road Than You.

Some people lie when the truth would suit better, and others aspire to intrude upon your personal space even when common sense would dictate otherwise. (“I don’t have a car. I don’t have any kids applying for a license. But, oooh, I crave your spot in line at the DMV!”)

I don’t know where the stream of vehicles is headed, but first-class postage can go up twice while I’m crossing the street to my mother’s mailbox. (No, wait. Postage could go up twice even if the Starship Enterprise BEAMED me across the street. Bad example.)

I try not to be a hypocrite. When I’m shopping, I loathe to mumble “Pardon me” as I squeeze between umpteen other shoppers and their potential purchases. So for ages, I have made a habit of using “the road less traveled” in selecting my route. But even if I dart down an aisle labeled as “Sundries, Realistic Paintings of Your Parents Having Sex and Festive Turnip Spice Candles,” some bozo is inevitably camped out and consulting his financial adviser, his psychic and the pope about which Yoko Ono 8-tracks to purchase.

Someday I’ll put these frustrations and indignities behind me. I already have my plot purchased at Lone Oak Cemetery. Hey, where did those squatters come from?

Excuse me. “You always hurt the ones you catch hogging your final resting place.”

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at tyreetyrades@aol.com and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”