Last weekend was a weekend of robbery.
It began on Saturday with an unjust and unexpected playoff loss for the Denver Broncos. And even though I’m not a diehard sports fan, playoff losses are like getting pinched in the armpit: totally unexpected and shockingly painful.
Then on Sunday afternoon, Mike and I returned home to discover that his road bike had been stolen from our complex’s underground parking garage. The unbreakable lock that was attached was not, in fact, unbreakable. We discovered the broken lock remnants and Mike got really quiet for a few hours.
Meanwhile, I got really angry-chatty, the kind where I start sentences with “What kind of person would…” and “How is it possible that…” Lucky for you, I fleshed out most of my feelings of outrage in my journal.
But then my journal disappeared, too, which makes me think the road bike and journal theft were connected. Perhaps the road bike was just a gateway robbery to get to the real gem: my journal. (Don’t you dare roll your eyes)
I told Mike that stealing my journal thoughts was like stealing diamonds in the rough. “Someone is about to get really rich,” I said. The journal it is where I wrote down my most specific resolutions, things like “learn how to walk more aerodynamically” or “approach each situation as if it will evolve into a chase scene.”
Mike said I was being ridiculous, that I probably just left the journal somewhere around the house. I told him to notify our insurance about my stolen diamond thoughts. After that, the TV volume abruptly increased, which I assumed was totally incidental. Sometimes the TV volume overpowers Mike’s empathetic response. Mike says this means we need a newer, larger TV. I told him to stop changing the subject.
When something is taken from me, even something silly and material like a bike or a notebook, it makes me want to initiate a chase scene, even if it’s one without direction. I become an adventurer-turned-hunter with just enough adrenaline and physical fitness to become a danger to myself and no one else. The chase makes me want to interrogate strangers and post signs around our building that state, “Hello Criminal. I know where you live. I have seen Taken and Taken 2. Prepare to be justiced.”
I think about those signs without ever posting them, which means the criminal has no idea about the forthcoming justice. He has no idea that he needs to protect his armpits.
Really, there is nothing to be done. You slap your forehead, pace a few circles, and then shake it off. I guess recovery comes in sentences that start with, “It’s only a bike…” “It’s only a football team.” and “We’ll get em’ next season,” even if we don’t know for sure.
Robbery recovery occurs when we release things we weren’t ready to and practice accidental benevolence on days we aren’t feeling particularly generous. It’s a catalyst for grace when I would rather morph into a vigilante, the kind with an aerodynamic unitard and satisfying chase scene.
But I’m practicing letting go, imagining that there is thankfulness on the other side of my accidental benevolence. And to this I say:
You’re welcome, Ravens.
You’re welcome, bike thief.
You’re welcome, accidental protégé. I hope you enjoy my diamond thoughts. But so help me, if I discover a blog called The Happier Ones…