We're still deleting ourselves out of the Black Friday/Cyber Monday email hell, so let's keep today fun and take a trip down memory lane, shall we?

Have you ever had one of those career moments that you know will make a great story someday... but in the moment, you’re just trying not to fall over?

Yeah. That was me at the Versace Mansion auction.

Back when I was a reporter for NBC in Miami, I sometimes worked as a one-man band. That meant shooting, writing, and editing all my own stuff.

People assume that’s just for small markets... nope. Big-city chaos loves to test your limits, too.

Most days, I liked it. I’m a control freak in the creative sense... if I can build the story from scratch, I’m happy.

But when you drop me into full-blown mayhem on Ocean Drive with tourists, media from every corner of the country, and a bidding war brewing over the Versace Mansion? A little help would’ve been lovely.

So there I am... tiny, determined, wedged into a sea of cameras with absolutely zero space to set up a tripod.

I’m holding my camera steady, knees locked, trying to stay balanced on the world’s stickiest sidewalk... and suddenly I feel something behind me.

Someone from another media outlet... has decided...

My head is their tripod.

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Literally.

My head.

Apparently, I was the perfect height. And could I do anything about it? Absolutely not.

If I moved, my shot would be shaky. So I stood there sacrificing my personal space and possibly a few vertebrae... all in the name of steady footage.

To the man who used my head as a tripod all those years ago... you’re welcome.

Moral of the story?

Journalism gives you thick skin (wanna hear my barrage of death threats story next?), steady hands, and apparently the exact measurements for tripod-grade posture.

Until next time... keep your head held high, but maybe not that high.