Writer
Today, my brother and I had lunch with my grandparents (all four of them). Afterward, my paternal grandpa, a retired chiropractor, showed me the following:
|
| Yes, that is me. And no, I was not wearing a wig. |
My first adjustment, courtesy of my grandpa. Precious. I cherish this picture.
Not 30 minutes after I wrote my last post, I sat in my car in the far-right turn lane of a set of three turn lanes, each lined with cars waiting for green arrows so we could make lefts into each of the three southbound lanes of US Highway 19.
Any set of left-turn lanes makes me anxious. This is because in any set of left-turn lanes, there is at least one self absorbed driver who — bereft of awareness of anything that isn’t inside his or her vehicle — does not know his or her turn lane is part of a set. So if this person is, say, a guy in a green Mustang in the middle turn lane of three, he may, for instance, turn from the middle turn lane into the highway’s right lane. If there are no cars in the far-right turn lane of the three, his lack of awareness is both no biggie and reinforced: he’ll have done something he shouldn’t have, and without consequence.
But what happens when he turns into the right lane from a middle turn lane when there are cars in the far-right turn lane whose drivers are turning into that lane, too?
Sometimes, a crash. Other times, like today, the world becomes a better place.
The red arrows turned green and all three lanes turned left. The guy in the green Mustang, bereft of awareness of my car next to his, turned from the middle turn lane into the right southbound lane — my lane. The young woman in his passenger’s seat, whose window was down, saw my car. While he ran me off the road, she screamed. He swerved back into the middle, quickly enough that I could merge back into traffic.
And as I did, the young woman and I made eye contact.
Which is when, with such clear compassion, she apologized.
Twice now in two days, I’ve encountered people who’ve behaved in ways that so exceed my generally extremely low expectations of the general public. My blood pressure and I have needed this.
Pushing a cart and dodging other shoppers, I swiveled into the turn onto the ice cream aisle.
“Popsicles,” I said. “Popsicles, Popsicles, Popsicles.”
Found them. And simultaneously as I found them, so did a girl who I’d guess is 18 years my junior. This is how the world became a better place in the frozen foods section.
We reached for the freezer door together, and she held it open while I grabbed a box of Popsicles. She reached in and grabbed her own after that. I tossed my box into my cart, which is when I realized.
“Sugar free?” I said. “I don’t want sugar free.”
So — while the girl continued to hold the door open for me — I put that box back and reached for another.
“Also sugar free! Are they all sugar free?”
“Nope!” the girl said, which is when she all but climbed into the freezer to retrieve an out of sight box of Popsicles sweetened with real sugar. She handed it to me.
“Thank you so much!” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
She smiled.
Who knew shopping for a box of Popsicles would result in the restoration of some of my hope for and/or faith in humanity?
Which is why I was horrified to realize I am wearing a red sweater.
Realize that the red and the pink and the chocolate and the “Hi, significant other! I’ll treat you like you’re special today because Hallmark says I should.” of the Valentine’s Day in which the Americans who celebrate it partake have this much to do with Saint Valentine, whose feast day is today: ZERO PERCENT.
Sorry to disappoint.
But my day was saved by friend and fellow blogger SVB:
Me: I’m so ashamed. I accidentally wore a red sweater today and I did not intend to look festive.
SVB: If people ask about your sweater, you can just tell them you are celebrating St. Valentine’s imprisonment and eventual bloody ending.
Martyrdom > consumerism.
Just sayin’. Thanks, SVB!
I traditionally don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. (That I’ve been single most Valentine’s Days as an adult is a coincidence.)