Life has this way of, well, happening. Without disclosing specifics (because really, we've all experienced Life in our own way), I have to tell you I'm stuck in the dugout trying to convince myself I actually do possess the courage to step up to the plate and swing again. You'd think it would be easy, but it's not.
See, Life doesn't give a good rat's backside about one's obligations, hopes, dreams, plans or priorities, particularly (it seems) when it has the chance to make a play against you. You can make grand plans then step up to the plate and swing for the fences, but there are so many factors beyond your control that all influence whether the ball makes it to the fence or Life's left-fielder is able to retrieve it on the final descent behind the wall in a stunning move that leaves you tripping all over yourself halfway down the first base line. Run-on sentence or not, you know what I'm talking about. It's that gasp-inducing moment when your well-laid plans unravel and everything you thought you knew proves false. And while you stand there on the first base line, Life is already busy winding up for its next pitch, shock and awe and disappointments be damned.
I've considered hiring a hit on Life, but that's obviously not a terribly well thought out move. Life fails me often, sure. But not at that level. Not yet. So that's out. Then I thought about just having Life's knees broken. You know--like a mini hit. But what if that's not a powerful enough statement? What if Life is able to rebound with bionic speed and, in a Seven Million Dollar Man move, takes me to the mat and beats me bloody? Or bloodier. What then? So that seems ill-advised as well.
So I sat back and did some calculations. If you know me and my mathematical abilities, you already know that didn't end well. I may have ended up finding the end of Pi. I'm waiting for men in black suits to show up at my house shaking bags of Oreos to lure me out where they will then, with Tasers set on "Pants-Peeing, Drooling Mess," they're going to drop me as I reach for the first cookie. Hey. It could happen. You don't know how much I love Oreos.
As I sit around waiting to be Tased, I'm trying to decide exactly what it is that Life has against me. I mean, there have been some spectacular moments where everything has come together and I've found Sterling silver linings on every cloud in the sky. Of course, silver is heavy, and when it falls at terminal velocity, it breaks stuff when it lands. Namely, me. Those silver linings keep raining down on me like blobs of spilled mercury. And in case you were wondering, umbrellas are entirely useless and that whole when-it-rains-it-pours thing means the waters up over my Wellies and my feet weigh 10,000 pounds as I trudge onward. Always onward.
So it seems the intermediate solution is to let Life have its way with me and wait until that perfect moment to strike back, to own that bitch like the little fence-jumping, unplanned-puppyhood, you're-momma's-of-questionable-morals-and-your-daddy-ain't-much-better hound dog she is. Because I know the moment is coming when that next silver-lined cloud will fill the sky, and I'll have a moment between storms to appreciate the brilliant blue above me, the shine of the silver in the sunlight and all the opportunities those things represent. It can't be all sunshine any more than it can be all dark skies. There is a balance to things. This is where yin and yang were born and continue to meet all these millennia later. So I will ride out the storm, slogging along in my rain-filled boots with my pelted, leaky umbrella and the scars left behind from dodging the worst Life has pitched at me.
"And what will you do about life?" you ask?
That's easy. The bitch has to sleep sometime.
See, Life doesn't give a good rat's backside about one's obligations, hopes, dreams, plans or priorities, particularly (it seems) when it has the chance to make a play against you. You can make grand plans then step up to the plate and swing for the fences, but there are so many factors beyond your control that all influence whether the ball makes it to the fence or Life's left-fielder is able to retrieve it on the final descent behind the wall in a stunning move that leaves you tripping all over yourself halfway down the first base line. Run-on sentence or not, you know what I'm talking about. It's that gasp-inducing moment when your well-laid plans unravel and everything you thought you knew proves false. And while you stand there on the first base line, Life is already busy winding up for its next pitch, shock and awe and disappointments be damned.
I've considered hiring a hit on Life, but that's obviously not a terribly well thought out move. Life fails me often, sure. But not at that level. Not yet. So that's out. Then I thought about just having Life's knees broken. You know--like a mini hit. But what if that's not a powerful enough statement? What if Life is able to rebound with bionic speed and, in a Seven Million Dollar Man move, takes me to the mat and beats me bloody? Or bloodier. What then? So that seems ill-advised as well.
So I sat back and did some calculations. If you know me and my mathematical abilities, you already know that didn't end well. I may have ended up finding the end of Pi. I'm waiting for men in black suits to show up at my house shaking bags of Oreos to lure me out where they will then, with Tasers set on "Pants-Peeing, Drooling Mess," they're going to drop me as I reach for the first cookie. Hey. It could happen. You don't know how much I love Oreos.
As I sit around waiting to be Tased, I'm trying to decide exactly what it is that Life has against me. I mean, there have been some spectacular moments where everything has come together and I've found Sterling silver linings on every cloud in the sky. Of course, silver is heavy, and when it falls at terminal velocity, it breaks stuff when it lands. Namely, me. Those silver linings keep raining down on me like blobs of spilled mercury. And in case you were wondering, umbrellas are entirely useless and that whole when-it-rains-it-pours thing means the waters up over my Wellies and my feet weigh 10,000 pounds as I trudge onward. Always onward.
So it seems the intermediate solution is to let Life have its way with me and wait until that perfect moment to strike back, to own that bitch like the little fence-jumping, unplanned-puppyhood, you're-momma's-of-questionable-morals-and-your-daddy-ain't-much-better hound dog she is. Because I know the moment is coming when that next silver-lined cloud will fill the sky, and I'll have a moment between storms to appreciate the brilliant blue above me, the shine of the silver in the sunlight and all the opportunities those things represent. It can't be all sunshine any more than it can be all dark skies. There is a balance to things. This is where yin and yang were born and continue to meet all these millennia later. So I will ride out the storm, slogging along in my rain-filled boots with my pelted, leaky umbrella and the scars left behind from dodging the worst Life has pitched at me.
"And what will you do about life?" you ask?
That's easy. The bitch has to sleep sometime.
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