(view from my neighbor's driveway)
This past Labor Day, my ward advertised a Men v. Women softball game.
Sunday morning, sunny skies . . .
"Excellent!" I exclaimed. I well remember my glory days of 4th grade softball with Mr. McConnell. Along with Chandra, we were always among the first picked.
Arms pinwheeling through the air, heels flying . .
As I broadcast my enthusiasm to many about the Monday event, long-dormant doubts begain to creep in.
Neighbor girl, normally laidback, flashes by . . .
After all, 4th grade was long ago. Long long long LONG ago.
A hopeful screech wafts behind, "BAIIIIIIIIILLLEEEEEEY!!" . . .
And, hadn't I had "practice throwing" on my New Year's resolution list for years? My gosh, did they lengthen the distance between the bases? Just how far away was home plate from the outfield? Could a person even be seen out there?
Dog, disinterested, flickers a glance from a fragrant tree. . .
Reviewing my basic deficiencies (pride being foremost among them), I gulped and took the field with my team, to no spectacular results. (Much to the bewilderment of my 4th-grade self still echoing around here in my 33-year-old self.)
Later, wasps hum as they return home . . .
Chastened, I now recognize the signs. Whenever I feel my head begin to swell with errant, grandiose thoughts and foolish pride,
All is well.
I remember this my-word-there's-a-crazy-person-running-down-the-street-again scene and shake my head.
The enemy is vanquished.
Cheeks aflame, head size back to normal--meekness restored.
Sometimes it just takes a memory to cure overactive swelling--no aspirin necessary
(P.S. Really, I'm not sure what I thought my dog would do to help me escape the angry wasps that were stinging me, but reaching out for help (from anyone/thing) seemed the thing to do.)
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