Acceptance

The topic:

Pick something you don’t like, and choose to accept it

Something that has always ticked me off is when people don’t do what they say they’re going to do. I learned this early, looking out the window sitting in my dad’s truck waiting to meet up with his friends to go riding. They were always late, rushing into the gas station to then grab something to drink before burning rubber (and God knows what else) on the way to the trailhead. My dad just shook his head pulling under a shade tree and we would unload in silence, caring not to dilly-dally over details – we just wanted to ride. So, when a gentleman’s word is not enough, just like when I was younger, I start squawking like a rooster because I have to accept it.

~ Serenity comes when you trade expectations for acceptance. ~

Another thing I have to accept, which I realized again a few days ago when my girls and I were out on the town, is ignorance. We met a couple of cute guys from up the Midwest who looked so out-of-place in their new shirts and fresh haircuts. When we asked what brought them to Florida – I always love hearing the answer to that question – one responded, “I’ve always loved New SUH MEER NA.”

I cringed. The table fell silent, so I chimed in. “How can you love a place you can’t even pronounce?” I tried not having an attitude – fail – but he looked like he just saw his dog die. I turned to my friends, who could not believe I just called him out.

“What?” I asked incredulously. “It’s New SUH MER NA,” I said nicely, sounding it out with a smile. Too late.

Accept the blur

More than anything, I have to accept what is least expected. For instance, I drove a truck home from the dirt bike track the other night, loaded with two guys, theirs bikes, Ogio gear bags and gas cans. We stopped on the way for a meal and after leaving the restaurant one of their phone rings. He answered, falling quiet when he heard the news. “My gear bag?” he asked. “F**k! There’s like $2,000 worth of stuff in there!”

Somehow – it could have been my driving – his gear bag had fallen out of the back of the truck and the caller, who happened to work at the restaurant and knew him – gotta love small towns – saw someone else stop to pick up his bag and take off with it!

“Incredible,” I said after driving by the intersection where we all we found was a dirty sock, spandex and one lonely knee brace. Gone was the bag, four sets of gear, nine pairs of goggles, gloves and the long knee socks that Fox apparently doesn’t make anymore. I could not apologize enough, even though the three of us agreed that we’ve never known any gear bag to fly off the bed of a truck.

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