Truth in the Motherland

Today was a very beautiful day.

The sun was beaming, the streets were bustling, the air was crisp and I had breakfast. I was feeling the big city mojo as I strutted the crowded streets during lunch hour on my way to a broadcast orientation.

Yes, I was completely and utterly full of myself today. Some might say that I caught “the spirit”. I couldn’t be stopped. I was completely optimistic about e-ver-y-thing.

Then, I found myself on State Street. And the ego only got bigger. I began to hear drum beats.

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And my mood change. My energy changed. My aura transformed. It was an urban melody of funk and hip hop that swayed back and forth between tribal throwbacks and warrior anthems. I felt mighty. And suddenly, I was in the zone. The crowds of people disappeared and the sidewalk had turned itself into a one man runway. The layers of winter sweats became French Vogue and I started to smile with my eyes. I was charging towards Madison without skipping a beat, my steps strong like bull. I almost make it to the end of the runway to greet the press and then:

PHWAAAAAP!

[silence]

The young urban youth lost his grip of the drum stick… which made its way to my face.

“My Bad…”

I bent over to pick up the old and beaten drumstick that was questionably sticky and handed it to him as a peace offering.

A few test taps on the plastic barrel, and he is back in business.

As for me… my face hurts. Badly. And I have to walk just as fast to avoid the “are you okays” and chuckling.

Just when you think you are on top of the world, the universe has a way of reminding you that you are not above getting injured.

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