Hi there kittens.

So today I got struck by a runaway taxi! The horror of it all! I was crossing 42nd St. under the direction of the little glowing man and what should happen to cross my path? None other than a giant yellow town car. What else would one expect? I guess I should start keeping my wits about me.

This isn't the first time I've gotten hit by a car (I've been hit twice in my life, both of which happened in the last year) and this got me thinking: how many times on average, is the average person hit by an average car in an average lifetime? I spent a good amount of time trying to find this to no avail, but I imagine that 2 is close to the cap.
Since neither incident resulted in any sort of injury, I've taken them both as signs. Slight kicks in the ass from the universe, so I thought to myself, "what was happening at those times where I would need such a kick?"

Well, instance one I was rushing around like a mad person trying to find an address that was as elusive as a jaguar (bastard address). I was literally running back and forth along two city blocks knocking people out of my way, trying to make an appointment that was under threat of being cancelled if I was even one minute late. I was already five and counting. As I shoved a couple of school kids out of my way to book across Lexington for the 78th time, a silver Denali made an illegal right turn right into my butt, knocking me back onto the pavement. Being the amazingly kind-hearted person that I am my first thought was of course, "Thank God I pushed those kids out of the way." My second, after surveying the giant black tire treads across my brand new light grey jeans was "GODDAMNIT I JUST BOUGHT THESE PANTS."

I was actually so dazed that all I could think was that I was even later still for my appointment so I bounced up, apologized to the driver of the Denali (of course) and continued on my way, just as manic as before.

This morning was a different story. I was walking quite slowly as it was the early morning. I knew quite well where the building was that I was going and I definitely was in no mood for pushing anyone around me. I was however on this wicked wicked fast which has had me thinking about food and NOTHING ELSE for the past 6 days. So I was dreaming of eggs and bacon I was delivered a cold yellow taxi to snap me out to. Worked like a charm. This time I decided to take the sign. I killed the fast. It's just not my style to have something occupy my mind as much and for as long as food was doing so. I flit. Like a butterfly in a field of wildflowers. I'm not a lazy caterpillar. I'm not glued to a branch. It just doesn't feel right.

And as for the lesson in the last one, it was simply slow down and stop acting like you're the only person in the whole world that needs to be somewhere. I have a real problem with that. When I have to be somewhere or do something, my agenda is the only thing that matters. The world may as well just go on holiday for a minute because I need to make my 6:30 yoga class!!

So I don't blame the drivers of those terror mobiles for hitting poor, innocent me. They could've no more helped their fate as stopped time. They were messengers sent to knock me on my ass and into some sort of perspective. So the next time you're running around like the center of the universe or following a path that's just not meant for you, please, check yourself.

Otherwise you may find yourself with some fresh tire treads on your brand new pants.