Ode to the realization that it's really not about me...

People, I'm for real out of my element.

Within the past two hours I have drunk about a liter of butter tea (now is not the time to describe the taste), learned Tibetan circle dances (repetitive doesn't mean easy) , and taught the "Macarena"(aka. American middle school dance classic).

Within the past day I have played basketball (why does the world think all Americans are like LeBron James?), used more vaseline then I ever thought necessary (curses to the dry air combined with chalk dust), and been to a Tibetan "glamor shots" store (I'll let you dream about that one).

Within the past week I have ridden a bike through the city (horrifying but possible), broke the bike (really don't think it was my fault), and caught a taxi (in an unrelated circumstance) by myself.

Who would have dreamed that I could stomach that much butter tea, become a dance instructor, basketball extrodinare, vaseline poster child, bike rider/breaker and fluent in the art of taxi-ing?

Not I... but I know who did dream it up.

I may not be in my element, but I'm in the right one... and moment by moment I'm reminded of how little it's about me.