“Pigeons rate right down there with mosquituhs an’ houseflahs.”
Startled, my eyes snapped back into focus. You know how your eyes get when you’re looking in your mind’s rearview mirror, expanded to see wide but not specific? That’s what I’d been doing. I’d been walking, carrying a rare commodity for me: a caramel mocha latte made by a real, live barista. I usually stopped into the nearest QuikTrip and made my own, twice as large at a third of the price, thankyouverymuch.
Not this morning. I’d gotten too warm during the night, woke up with a headache, and was in a rare contrary mood. So I sucked it up and paid for the overpriced hot drink.
“Nem?”
Uncomprehending, I stared with right eyebrow raised. Spock would applaud.
“Nem foah lawday?”
Oh. “Dan.”
“Damn?”
Slowly. 1…2…3 . . . “DAN.”
Excited nod. “Ah! Dang!”
Fine. Whatever. I stepped back, joining the queue comprised of the condescending twit in pink-and-green sweater vest whose obvious importance was tied to the laptop he stood pecking on one-handed; and the Emo Twins who could’ve been identical except for her mustache. It was thicker than his.
The stainless steel contraption that would’ve befuddled Rube Goldberg beeped, whirred, went “Slooooshhhh” and “Skhurrrrrreeeeesssh” and “KhoooOAaaaaaahhhh!” I’m pretty sure ‘barista’ means someone who’s taken classes in how to make those noises with their mouth while dumping the stuff in one’s cup.
“DANG?” Raising my chin and eyebrows, I accepted the treasured libation she unceremoniously plunked down on the silly little display stand, built up where EVERYONE could see “DANG” scrawled on the cup. As I stalked past the others, I heard Pink ‘n’ Green snicker. At least I got mine before you did. Jerk.
I then did something else I rarely did. I’d sat down on a park bench where I could listen to the whispering water, chuckling over the stonework of the artificial falls across the walkway.
So I was sitting there, ruminating about how unfair life sometimes gets. I groused about unreasonable people who can’t – won’t – get along with anyone who dares to think for themselves, and viciously attack those who dare to pose a valid differing opinion. I carped about yet another Kirby salesman wanting to clean my mattress. I even murmured and complained about gas going up again, and these–these stupid pigeons! That’s what I was doing when I heard the scratchy, wizened voice.
http://waterrockhomes.com/
“Pigeons rate right down there with mosquituhs an’ houseflahs.”
Whirling around, the only person I saw was a slightly-hunchbacked old woman, homeless from the looks of her, already receding into the distance in that strange, plodding stolidness they all seem to share. Must be a thing with them.
I agreed with her, but it also dawned on me how petty and ridiculous I was sounding–even to myself. I began thinking . . .
It’s deceptively easy to grouse about your lousy circumstances. Simple to ‘escape’ your boring, no-fun existence with mental fantasy gymnastics of how you’d like things to be. After all, everyone has dreamy ideas about how wonderful their life would be, “if only . . .” Right?
Truth? Your circumstances are likely some of your own doing. Want them different? Do daily things different. Reset your values. Realign your expectations. Retrain yourself. Stop looking through ‘Worst-Possible’ filters at those around you while glancing within through ‘I’m-Fine’ ones.
The circumstances themselves may never fully change. You will. And, suddenly, you’ll realize those whom you spent years blaming and criticizing are just as uniquely created, interesting and important as you are. They simply have their own preferences that don’t always agree with yours. And they don’t have to.
Learn to look around at the circumstances of others. You’ll quite often find yours aren’t so tedious, after all.
And it’s okay if you’re still trying to make those coffee shop noises I described. I did, too, while I was trying to figure out how to write them.
© D. Dean Boone, October 2017