Good morning, sunshine

It happens once a month -- I'm feeling good about the world, in control, confident, attractive, bemused at the wackiness that is life, back in my zen place, etc. And then the gods remind me that I'm not actually the boss of me.

Take this morning, for example. I sped off from the little green house feeling pretty chipper -- despite the fact that I am incapable of reproducing and not a woman -- and dressed to kill in my day-glo yellow biking jacket, my sleek biking tights and my incredibly geeky biking helmet. I was early after several long days, so I decided to stop for a bagel. I read the Times, I ate breakfast, I treated myself to a decaf. Then I went into the bathroom and vomited it all back up.

Let's recap: Not pregnant. Vomiting nonetheless.

It gets better. Post-hurl, I gave myself a few minutes to recover and make the best of a bad situation. (Me to self: "Sure, that everything bagel wasn't as good coming up as going down, but at least this gives me time to read the entire paper!") Once my stomach settled, I hopped back on the bike and took off for downtown. Again, I was feeling right with the world. Until I stopped at a light on the edge of downtown and, with a grace I didn't know I possessed, proceeded to fall over into the street.

Imagine a tree falling in the woods, except the tree is me, wearing my hideous gold coat and tights and a bowl on my head, and instead of there being no one there to hear it, I'm holding up two lanes of traffic and five other bikers.

The good news: I now sport awesome bruises on my right elbow and knee. And I made it through the morning without beating up any blind men or screaming obscenities at any paranoid schizophrenics. That's progress.