Last weekend Mistah and I were invited to our friend Steven's 50th Birthday party. We made a plan to drive to our friend Nancy and Jon's house, dump the car, and go to the party with them -- Jonny could be our DD, and we'd kick my godson out of his bed and into the basement and sleep in his room that night.
When we arrived I said to Nancy, "Now that we're here, we're officially in your hands." She said, "Well, dude, you're not in my hands." I said, "I don't care whose hands I'm in, as long as they're not my own."
I make it my business to put myself in other people's hands. Take for instance the current Winter Film Festival. Jennie picked me up on the first night after collecting Carlos. I got in the back seat and when asked, "Where should we go for a drink?" I replied, "I'm in your hands."
I love being in other people's hands. Other people's back seats are comfortable, and I never have to worry about anything. As long as I remember the wine.
But I can't.
It's out of my hands.