Crises

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Yes, crises. As in plural.

I don't like complainers. I don't like when people complain about their lots. Sometimes in the presence of your mother or your best friend a weak moment is needed, but publicly... complaining is a no, no. So I'm not going to complain per se. I'm going to talk about why I don't like baseball.

I've never really liked baseball. I think it's too long of a game, with crappy food & not much action. {Sorry, if you love baseball, this is mostly for analogue purposes.} A poignant thing that life & baseball have in common is curveballs. You know those sneaky, fast, loopy balls that make you swing forcefully, but the only contact you achieve is air & dirt when you land on your butt?

This month has been abundantly filled with curveballs. High ones, low ones, wide ones... you name it. The last one hit me square between the shoulder blades crippling me to the ground. What do I do? Dust myself off? Take the walk? Run for the pitcher with my bat & start a riot? The choices are up to me I suppose. I couldn't do much about the curve ball, but at least I have the choice to react to the curve ball.

{This metaphor might be getting old to you, but it's helping me sort this all out so bear with me.} Curveballs help us become better ball players. We need to learn how to not only hit curveballs, but how to learn from a miss as well.

So if you've missed me lately it's been because I've spent a lot of time I'm my butt this week in the box. But since I've got some Spray N' Wash handy, I'll make sure my uniform is clean for the next game & the numerous curveballs to come.

And hey... at least I didn't strike out.