I Believe I Can Fly (How'd That Work, Icarus?)

Hubris is a bitch.

You'd think that, as an English major, I'd be familiar with literary devices, and how they play out. The protagonist, impressed with his achievements and abilities, assumes too much, and pays for it. This predates English lit, even, as the term is Greek in origin. And let's not pretend that, back in day, our good ol' cavefolk ancestors didn't have the same concept. Some guy thinks he can chuck a pointy stick at a sabretooth tiger, and lo and behold, it works once. Probably, it did not work twice. Hubris.

So yeah, this is old school. Hell, this is older than school. In any case, I should know better.

But I thought I was invincible. I though I did all of the core and strength stuff you need to, that I wore the right kind of shoe (or lack thereof), and trained intelligently. Bulletproof, baby.

Enter hubris.

My left IT band is now rather inflamed, and I've been reduced to that guy hobbling up to the elliptical for an hour of light spinning, trying to coax my heart rate over 100 BPM. Granted, it's only been two days, and things are feeling quite a bit better. And at any rate, nothing but my transient pride depends on how fast I can manage the 5K in a week and a half.

But my income depends on my ability to make coffee. Well, that, and my ability to sweep, chat, hand over muffins, etc. But mostly, I make coffee. For a while there, that coffee was looking pretty good. By which I mean that I was pouring some pretty swank designs in lattes, and whipping up some lusty foam for cappuccinos.

Enter hubris.

Oh, wait. Hubris was that other thing. This is arete, a Greek word English hasn't co-opted, so I'll have to explain. Short version: It's the opposite. Whereas hubris is an overabundance of confidence, arete is a lack thereof.

There was a latte art "throwdown" last Friday night, of which I was made aware with plenty of time to prepare myself. I had a week to hone my hearts, rate my rosettas, and get ready to go kick some ass. Or pour pretty milk designs in espresso. Whatever. In any case, I did neither, because instead of psyching myself up, I psyched myself out, and went running instead. (See above for more info on how that went.) Maybe I'm a coward, maybe I just care too much. But whatever the reason, the result is the crappiest string of rosettas I've presented in months. 

So while hubris is a bitch, so is balance. If Space Jam taught us anything, it's that you must believe it to achieve it, but that you can't take anything for granted. So I'm going to lace up my... actually, my shoes don't have laces. But still, I will wear shoes, because I value health code. And then I'll go make some good drinks, to save the world from alien baristas that have stolen the skill-set of former WBC competitors.