Victory Laps

The first time something of any consequence fell into my lap, I assumed it was divine intervention. I thought it was the Big Guy’s way of saying , “time to fix your ceiling.” What else could explain the ever increasing bits of drywall inserting themselves into my granola? It turns out it was nothing of the sort. The apartment above me had been rented out to a traveling dance troupe, who practiced aggressive samba to the soothing melodies of Antonio Carlos Jobim. The floor would shake, the ceiling would break, and I would end up ingesting more than I bargained for.

The second time anything worth remembering fell into my lap, I was in the park. Which part isn’t important. It was an Olmsted special, you can be sure. That’s when I started to notice an influx of acorns landing nearby. At first, like before, I assumed it was some kind of theological test. As it turns out, it was merely an angry squirrel, frustrated at his lot in life. He spent his time tossing acorns at picnickers, instead of pitching on a professional baseball diamond. For whatever reason, the uniforms don’t get that small or prejudice is still rife in the clubhouse, no team allows squirrels to tryout for the squad. You’d think they’d want the best players, not merely the best humans. They are willfully ignoring much of the global population. So there I was picking tree branches out of my punchbowl. 

Either way, those are first two that stand out. There are growth industries revolving around things falling into one’s lap. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m talking about is the universal goal of falling into one’s own lap. Some say this is nothing more than the fetal position. Curling into a ball is classic coping mechanism, which also happens to be aerodynamically sound. Cannonball, anyone?

A victory lap is not holding down the horn after hitting fifty green lights in a row. It’s dodging projectiles from an ornery ground mammal or googling the best roofer in your neighborhood. At least that’s what it means to me.