If you haven’t heard some form of the phrase “sometimes you’re the statue; sometimes you’re the bird,” you’ve likely been living under a rock or you don’t have access to the Internet. I extend my sympathy in both cases.
I have experienced this life ‘truth’ in many forms, but my experience a few days ago proves just how true it is, well, at least part of it.
What follows transpired on a humid Saturday evening in Nashville, Tennessee. It should never happen to anyone. I was people-watching and enjoying the nightlife, I like to boogie, in downtown Nashville when suddenly a general outcry arose from a large flock of birds (or bats, I haven’t determined which) in the trees above the sidewalk on which I was standing. As I looked up to determine the cause of the uproar, I felt something land on my forearm. It looked brown, wet, and certainly did not belong on my arm.
Yeah, I was on the receiving end of a bird’s business. Wait, it gets better.
After casually wiping off the unwanted delivery, I heard what sounded like a light rain. It wasn’t rain. More special deliveries from the birds fell from the trees and promptly landed on my white sweater, arms, and in my hair.
I removed what I could of the gift from my arms, disentangled my hair as much as possible, and threw the now tainted sweater in the nearest trash can. I’ll buy a new one.
Surprisingly, the only person who seemed to notice the odd shower I received was my friend, Kiki. And, thankfully, I didn’t receive the worst of the blessing from the trees. Someone’s vehicle took the brunt of the assault. (I’d hate to be that guy. I wonder how many times he had to wash his car.)
Had I been about 16 years younger, this experience would have mortified me and caused me to live most of my days in a self-imposed exile. Seriously. Who gets pooped on? Me, that’s who. I might have looked for a 12-step program to recover from the trauma when I was younger. Hi, my name is Erica and I’ve been pooped on by several birds.
Thankfully, I have developed a healthy sense of humor and can use the experience as material for my writing.
So, that day I was the statue. I don’t really want to be the bird in that situation, either. 🙂
May you never be on the receiving end of a bird’s business. It stinks.