Humility comes in many forms, all of them short lived. Take my Lazer tag outing today, for example. Twenty minutes of sweaty Star Wars fun, in theory at least.

Nope. Round one, I came in last out of about forty people. Couldn’t hit a blessed thing, and my vest musta been rigged for a hippo with a homing beacon. 1400 points and a 6% hit ratio – which means I hit something once for every 20 shots I took. The maze was filled with little hobbit-sized children trained by Rambo himself, schooling and reschooling me as if they couldn’t miss. Flustered beyond words, I demand a new vest for the next round.

“This thing’s busted.” The guy behind the counter tries to look understanding, but he’s smirking underneath, I know it. Inside he’s thinking, “Admit the cold, hard truth, pal. You’re old and decrepit.” But he gives me the new vest anyway. Humbled, I begin round two… and discover that it really was the vest the first time. POW! POW! POW! Bring it, ya’ll (that’s for Annie). Uh huh, you want summa diss? POW! POW! (I know, I’m a vocabularic genius).

At the end of round two, I had come in fourth, with 7500 points and (ahem!) a 45% hit ratio. Let me do the math for you just in case my brilliant performance hasn’t sunk in yet: That means I fried everything that moved once in every two shots. The little anklebiting hobbits were in awe, I tell you… though I think two of them still ranked higher. Lucky…

Yeah, this 37 year old is feelin’ pretty good about himself. God will have to humble me a different way, a different day.