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Asking for an extension for a homework assignment, because I spent the better part of the last-minute-night-before-time sobbing over a guy who wasn’t ready for a relationship … excusable at 15, but I’m a 35-year old mature student.  

I don’t get the extension.  

Instead I get “put your big girl pants on and never let them see you sweat.” 

I did.

Proud and super-human that I’m at the gym at 5:30.  I am a machine.  I will have a great workout.  I will look amazing.

Look at me go.

The men will flock to me.  To my amazing body and my super-human qualities … my tender charming spirit.  A cute boy, a fellow super-human-early worker-outer checks me out.  I am good.  This is good … I think as I stroll into the ab conditioning room.  The tag’s sheen is a stark contrast to my black lycra figure promoting tights.  My super-human fitness outfit is completely inside out.  

Still, I make it back to the gym another day … right side in.

I do.

I strut a little, basking in the glow that two full years of professional high-end and high-octane experience gives me.  I own the room.  My successor waffles.  All eyes point to me and I deliver.  They think and feel my smartness.  

I think and feel my smartness.  

It is lunch.  We start across the busy street.  Yellow taxi’s.  Politicians to-ing and fro-ing around the Hill.  A bus stops.  I feel good great.  A perfect storm of rubber meets oil.  I’m on all fours.  Knee skinned and screaming for a Dora band-aid.  I hop up.  I’m okay.  I AM okay.  

I don’t miss a beat.

I don’t.

Embarrassing moments.

They are humbling …

I am vulnerable …

human …

and laughing.