Everything Happens For A Reason

Posted on November 9, 2010

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So I am a firm believer  that everything happens for a reason.  It is how I am able to justify the good and bad in not only my life, but the world in general.  There has to be some higher power that sees the bigger picture, no matter how big or small. I don’t mean to get all religious, but I absolutely believe in the Proverbs 3:5 passage, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”  This sentiment has gotten me over a multitude of different sized hurdles including through serious injuries that almost cost me athletics, through my three schools in the first three semesters out of B-CC, through leaving Western my senior year and even through the dreadful 2006.  Nevertheless, like a Phoenix from the ashes, I rose.  It got me back on the field of play, down to ECU and maybe most importantly, to my unequivocally high tolerance of beer.  Just as coaches always proclaim that it is the little things that make the difference, I too value those seemingly minuscule events that add up to the whole sum.  I was at it again recently, wondering how the so-called insignificant events transform every bit of minutiae to become the very existence of my being.

On a random Monday as I leave the office to go home and rest, I enter the metro to find single-tracking trains; delays inevitable.  I was about as thrilled as Antonio Cromartie gets after yet another paternity suit.  Then I guess this just means three letters: B-A-R.  Cue up the soundtrack to Kingdom of Heaven and the image of a crusader motioning the symbol of the cross and the words, “it is God’s will.”  Done and done.  In the span all of .19 seconds I go from on my way home to nurse a hangover while watching Friday Night Lights re-runs, to deciding that the .19 will now be a BAC goal. I walk into a frequented watering-hole of mine in (China) town with a Steamin’ Willie Beamen confidence and a renewed sense of enthusiasm.  I am here to drink.  There is only one tiny difference from when I last was there, people.  Apparently Monday happy hours aren’t as grandiose in nature.  It is weak sauce McGee, but even that can’t deter me from getting after it.  I grab a spot at the bar and begin.

The atmosphere eventually begins to pick up and I occasionally allow my eyes to wander and survey my surroundings.  All the while, my Dr. John “J.D.” Dorian Scrubs inner monologue goes ape shit.  I spy with my little eye a tall, gangly black guy.  Damn!  He looks just like John Salley’s computer hacking character “Fletch” from Bad Boys, coke bottle glasses and all.  And then nearby is a flannel cut off wearing goof straight outta Larry the Cable Guy’s closet.  And then that look quickly morphs into an internal Paul Bunyan vs. Johnny Appleseed bigger jabroni debate. Then my attention was back to the TV for some Erin Andrews on another pregame show.  And then, just kidding.  No and then, “NO AND THEN!”  My thought process was interrupted by a guy fresh off the Appalachian trail.  When I say fresh I actually mean he hadn’t showered since. The locker room during two-a-days at the old BCC was less offensive to the nostrils.  I contemplate packing it in and making the move home.

I am not really sure what caused me to hesitate, but fate soon struck again as it always does.  A country song comes on and by the chorus my second wind is in full swing.  I make small talk with App. Trail guy about dumb hippy shit, and/including my sisters and Colorado.  He then drops, what must have been, the overarching reason behind everything that transpired that evening.  He had accompanied two foreign chicks from their hostel to the bar (and to think I wasn’t going to be friendly to him, and yes I guess there are hostels in D.C.).  MNF is on and I’m going to do all in my power to miss the ending.  These girls were from Germany and had killer accents.  One was brunette with a nice body, but a forehead the size of the Sudetenland.  It may have been the first time I wished a broad actually had a widow’s peak. The other was a cute blond.  Easy choice, as I have a thing for tallish blonds.  I switch to gin and tonics and have no clue about what we discussed, but I do believe I used a shit ton of hand gestures.  As was with my first Mexican who barely spoke English, that I aptly nicknamed “Mexico,” I find “sex” and “orgasm” are transcendent beyond any barrier, including that of language.  Though I have never really been outside the U.S., I have now been to a hostel.  Albeit in D.C.  I was half expecting bunk beds.  Security was a hassle, but I managed to get my “P in the V” anyhow.  My only concern was that I’m not endowed like a 7’1″ Nowitzki and hoping the rest of Europe wasn’t that well off either.  I awoke early the following morning from a dream about a mix between operation Valkryie and Chancellor Angela Merkel’s flawed policies.  I did, however, have a hankering for a bratwurst and some Kraut.  Funny how leftovers can do that, as I am fairly certain I ate both of those things last night.    Thankfully, the latter wasn’t of the sour variety.  As I attempt to sneak out of a community dorm room, I realize that I am not going to make it too far.  I have to take care of business.  I head to their bathroom and drop what felt like depth charges searching for U-571.  The splash back was not cool.  I take a brief gander before I flush and wave goodbye to some combination of the Lock Ness Monster and a poop-a-saurus.

I stumble home to shower and change for work that day contemplating how last night came to fruition and if I left my rubber bands at the hostel.  On my way back downtown I am thrown a curve.  The elevators at Friendship Heights are out.  As I stare at the outage sign it dawns on me.  It is a sign, literally, of a sign.  So it’s off to the beer store then wine bar for a day with the commish while I hum to myself, “all the, small things…”  If it wasn’t for any number of series of events, I would not be that idiot Murda you have all come to embrace.  It is ridiculous moments, like this, that encompass why I act the way I do.  There is absolutely no rhyme or reason why these encounters happen to me often.  I do not go out in search of shenanigans, they seem to find me.  One explanation could be that maybe I am a Chosen One being guided by some larger entity.  My never-ending quest to pillage 30’s may not be “alcoholism,” but rather my North Star towards Bethlehem.  So I will listen to my inner voice, trust it’s wisdom and “lean not on [my] own understanding.”  It may be narcissistic, but I love my life and I live it straight ca caw.

Murda

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