dip

Mildly distracted by thoughts of cardio exercise and the reason behind the local radio station’s incessant need to overkill that Foster the People tune that makes me want to puncture my eardrums, I missed the dip. My right front tire sinking while I cursed my delayed reaction, I was jarred back to the task at hand. Drive safely, mind the latest road construction and subsequent alternate route through a sidestreet, and do so without allowing the after-work crawl home to ignite a Terretsesque streak. “They should have one of those awesome DIP signs there, in the middle of the city,” I giggle to an empty passenger seat.

I immediately think of the numerous involuntary dips that occur on a weekly basis. For the most part, the work and daily life grind on, but the occasional moment of sinking slightly jars me out of complacency. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to veer. But maybe that’s the beauty of the dip. Even when you know it’s there, your action-reaction impulse gets a charge.