I wish I were her

I sit in traffic brooding. I do this a lot when I'm sitting in traffic. I hate that I do this. I don't like it. Brooding is my least favorite thing in the world to do. To counteract the brooding, I inevitably blast music so that it drowns out all the voices in my head that are clamoring for attention. They are the voices we all have, the ones that whisper to you, that demand attention to problems we have that are easier to ignore than to give any consideration to. But still they come through loud and clear because the problems are just that large…that humongous that even the blatant disregard of them does not help.

But this morning, for two seconds the voices quiet as I watch a woman on the sidewalk bike down Pennsylvania Avenue and I think to myself, "I wish I were her".

I still do.

Not that I do not think she may have 100 other bigger problems than I. No, I do not doubt such a thing. I just wanted to be her for that second.

She sits on her bike, riding hands free, sipping from her bottle of water, wearing long biking shorts and a black helmet looking for all the world a happy free person. The sun shown down upon her in such a way it was as if it were caressing her, bathing her in its glory. Even the sun loved her. I envy her more than anything for that carefree feeling she was projecting. I can not remember the last time I projected such a thing.

I want to project.

I wish I were her.