What makes you weak in the knees?

She doesn't have a name, though I think she looks like a Gertrude. Then again, I think a lot of females look like Gertrude.

Born less than a week ago, Gertrude introduced herself to my ankles yesterday. I was visiting one of my favorite farms and she was getting use to life. We hung out and shot the breeze about our mutual love of milk.

Gertrude doesn't have much to talk about. At least not yet. Five days of life isn't a long time to have formed too many opinions, though she does think the national debt situation is ludicrous.

What Gertrude did have practice doing, however, is falling. She performed it masterfully. And often. She stepped. And wobbled. Stepped. And shook. Stepped. And vibrated daintily at the knees, a sure sign of she'll do a fabulous curtsy when being courted.

Fell, she did. A few times. Fighting off the pull of that vibrating ground, Gertrude would, nonetheless, collapse in a pile of legs and shocked eyes, always giving an expression as if to say, "Why does this keep happening? I try so hard."

Then she would try hard again.

I couldn't help but admire her resolve and lean thighs. If only I had both. One more than the other. No, the other one.

Though walking was anything but surefooted and stable, she went at it constantly, stopping here and there for a head pat or a belly rub. She's a determined little thing. Gertrudes often are. It's hard to know if she's avoided the cynical approach because of her inexperience, her personal drive, or her pointed nose. Any and all could be responsible. 

Today I found myself wondering where I'd walk if, at each step, the ground hammered out "Flight of the Bumblebee" beneath me. Isn't that just a typical day? Maybe. Often feels that way. For Gertrude it is. For me, however, if given a choice I seek ground without rhythm.

What does that mean? It means procrastinating a prospective client pitch, contentedly nursing my current networks, writing what I already know and only peering from a distance at what I don't, choosing what I can do instead of what I might, sitting on my derriere instead of wobbling on my legs.

One position might take a while to see progress, but progress will come. The other is sitting on your butt. I'll leave you to determine how much progress will come from that.

Neither great choices. But choices rarely are anything close to great. If one was, we wouldn't need the other.

It's possible that Gertrude is simply a baby. A cute one. And had no lesson to teach. Then again, in her innocence and optimism, maybe she had one crucial thing absolutely right. Perhaps it's time to find out what makes us weak in the knees. Then run, even wobbly, toward it.

It's what Gertrude would do.