Perspective

It is a tribute to my church choir that we go out for martinis after rehearsal every week. We are not simply a group of disconnected people who happen to sing; we genuinely enjoy each other's company, and that connection is often reflected in the unity of our performance.

Something is different today, though. We went to what has become our customary destination, the latest happening bar in Colorado Springs. But, upon entering, I felt incredibly out of place. It wasn't that I was underdressed or otherwise physically disjunct. On the contrary: I am looking mighty good today. Rather, I was struck by a feeling of overarching repulsion. Every last person in the bar was somehow detestable to me, and I suddenly felt like a boy watching ants carry bits of vegetation across his path. It was as though I was on a higher level, like I didn't even belong to the same species as the other drinkers.

I exited quickly, and chided myself for such arrogance. How could I feel superior to anybody, let alone everybody, in a room? Who exactly did I think I was? And it wasn't even a mental judgment; I was viscerally detached from the entire scene, and felt like I wasn't even physically present. I simply could not bring myself to go back into the bar. The very thought of it created a wave of nausea.

On the way home, I wondered whether it was due to my natural haughtiness that I felt, for a moment, like I was on a higher plane. As I exited the vehicle, I was immediately on the other side of the equation. Four bodies were observing me from a knife-sharp sky in much the same detached way that I had been observing my peers earlier. Taurus, Auriga, Orion, and Gemini huddled around each other, glanced at me condescendingly, and said to themselves, "Were we ever that small?"