I like taking photos of street signs. And I like street signs per se. They tell you if you’re headed somewhere or nowhere. They have the decency to tell you what direction to take for your desired destination or if you’re headed to a dreadful dead end after walking for hours.
It’s akin to dress tags giving you instructions on how to properly wash them so you get to keep on wearing them for a longer period of time.
If only life is that easy. But life doesn’t come with instructions and signs. That’s what our anatomy is for. Whether it’s the hypothalamus or the proverbial heart, I’ll just leave it to people who know their stuff.
For women, men don’t come with signs like IMPENDING DOOM AHEAD or CHASTITY BELT: ON!
For men, women don’t come with labels emblazoned with GOT BREASTS, NO BRAINS or NOTORIOUS TEARS USER across the front.
These things we figure out for ourselves because we are equipped to handle these things. Take the egg (of the HEN, not the MEN’s), for instance. You crack an egg and all you see are the yolk and the egg white (excluding the infamous balut, of course). But it actually has everything it needs to become a hatchling given the right time and nurturing.
What I’m driving at? (Note to self: Take driving lessons seriously no matter how much you prefer commuting in spite of its nuances.)
We walk through life doing wrong turns, taking risks and making mistakes. Life doesn’t give us guarantees for the choices we make. We just take that leap of faith and hope that a cushion is laid out somewhere to break our fall.
But should there be none, pick yourself up and don’t head straight to Your Own Pity Party Street. Ok fine. Wallow in misery for a bit. Hurt for a while. But please, do yourself a favor and don’t make Misery Avenue the site of your retirement. Get yourself together (and that includes your brain, my dear) because the drama gets really old, you know. It really does.