Not Qualified

I've accepted the fact there are some things in this world that I am simply not qualified to do. Sometimes a desire burns deep inside me to compete and become qualified to do certain tasks or activities. I've always dreamt of playing professional golf, but until I can break 100 on an 18-hole course, I realize I'm not qualified to play in the PGA. I did, however, take a golf course last fall semester up at BYU-Idaho. While in the class, I met and played often with a nice young man who shared my passion of swinging a club at a small white ball into a beautiful, open green field. We got to talking about his wife and her amazing artistic ability. Again, the desire to become a renowned artist burned within me and my older sister gave me my very first acrylic art set for my birthday. I have yet to test my possible hidden talents on an open canvas; but, I have accepted the fact that I just might not be qualified to sell art work at a moderately placed price. So, among the things I've come to peace with not being qualified, tonight topped the chart. My roommate and I decided to order pizza and watch a movie tonight. I volunteered to pick up our dinner on my way home from dropping off some things at the library. Total, $7.41 for one, medium, 2-topping pizza. Then I arrived at our apartment complex, got out of my car fine, grabbed my purse, the 2-liter diet ginger ale, the gallon of ice cream I bought earlier, and the pizza. As I walked up the stairs, I fumbled for my keys, missed a step, and watched in slow motion as my beautiful, medium, pineapple and pepperoni pizza spiraled to the concrete steps. The box flew open and the smell of deliciousness floated to the ground. I just stared at the pieces on the steps in disbelief. I kept thinking to myself, "There is no way that just happened." I think I sat on the steps for a good 5 minutes before entering my apartment, picking up the phone, and mouthing to my roomie what happened in a half-hearted explanation of why we had to wait 15 more minutes to eat. I called "John" and described what happened, hoping for a little sympathy in the form of a free replacement pizza. "With tax included, that'll be $7.41," he said. I said thank you, hung up, grabbed my keys and a Hamilton, and walked back to Papa's. It's okay, I tell myself. I'm just not qualified to be a pizza delivery person, and I am truly okay with that.