Ninja Me.

Last Sunday was the first time I went to the children section of the local library in three years. Humming a tune out-of-tune, I was enjoying a good day. As I entered the sanctuary of my childhood, I was hit in the head, squarely, or maybe the politically correct term here would be 'roundly', by a ninja wannabe who actually had good aim, with a hardcover book. Seven inches wide, half an inch thick and roughly fifty pounds; mix in Newton's Third Law and that's a lot of force. Ouchy.

Following my untimely near-demise, a plump lady, with curls worthy of Marie Antoinette, a shirt covered in flowers so ginormous that I'm sure even environmentalists cringe at the sight, and a pair of jeans that takes "skin-tight" to a whole new dimension, bounced over. Yes, bounced. A better verb has not yet been invented, I apologize.

'She must be married.' I dizzily thought, 'no one single would dress like that.'

"Dear, are you okay?" She beamed, her boots subtly squashing into my toes. "Oh whoops, I am so sorry!"

I gritted, nodded and limped.

"I am so sorry -" the obscenity of humanity continued, "that my son hit you! He was only playing." She opted for a coquettish smile that didn't settle well with what I ate for breakfast.

I replied with what I hoped was a charming smile laced with a thick layer of please-leave-me-alone. It didn't work.

"Timmy! Come apologize to this nice lady right now."

... And then after a lack of response from her progeny:

"TIMMY!"

"It's alright, ma'am. Really!" I had to insist, otherwise she might think I was mute.

"MOMMY, I'M PLAYING."

"Don't worry about it!"

"TIMOTHY, COME HERE RIGHT NOW BEFORE -"

"FINE!"

The little giant stomped over, punctuating his stomps with haphazardly thrown projectiles. By the time he reached us, a few more victims were already down for the count. I vaguely wondered why the mafia hadn't recruited him as a sniper.

"Timmy, apologize to this lady over here." Mother Ugly said.

"I'm sorry." Son Uglier muttered, looking obscenely gleeful. He toyed with a building block that glinted dangerously in the dull library light and eyed me with a practiced assessment.

I gave him my best attempt of a withering glare, which failed, judging by his impertinent

grin. The rascal.

The mother continued to fuss and coo, but she eventually left with future-murderer-of-a-son in tow. I felt a vague tinge of regret at having judging her so unjustly, but I must excuse my behavior at this point, which has most likely been altered (whether permanently or not, I have not yet determined) by the blow to my head. I stumbled my way down the stairs and wandered, slightly dazed if the fact that I ran into a bookcase was any indication, towards the back of the library, away from the brouhaha of the playroom - where my accident egregiously occurred. I thought I saw a canoeing fairy, but that might have the bump talking.

I supposed the point of this essay, if any can be claimed for it at all, would be that anything can ruin a wonderful day. You are not alone, no matter how much you think you are. So the next time a little Timmy plays ninja with your head or a little Suzie uses you as finish line in her 100 meter dash, bear it like a pillar of steel. An ounce of hostility on your part is justified, but never a grudge. Life is too short to hold on to these ill wishes, or in other words, there will always be a sucker somewhere out there who's suffering worse from the whims of fate.