Twigged

I believe in the universe. You would too if, in an inspired moment, you decided to jettison the zany idea of cutting out coffee, after which, your shiny, silver, java delivery system, with the glorious womb-pot of liquid mana, that you lovingly prepared, chimed to your climactic anticipation at the exact same moment that you finished binge-watching Grace & Frankie. You may consider that odd, but I'm getting used to it. I've been experiencing synchronicity, and realize that the universe is trying to teach me to be more in-the-moment; thus, my coffee. I've had some interactions that have twigged me. For example:

I got dressed up and went to the city to watch one of my sons play double-bass for a production of Cosi Fan Tutte. Though formal attire is no longer required while attending the opera, or the symphony, when I consider that the performers have dedicated their lives to their art, and more often than not, blow my mind, I feel that showering and then throwing on something that doesn't have avocado, or some mysterious gravy mark on it, the least I can do to show a little love. In a lapse of sense however, for this night, I wore heels, and a dress that is nice, but snug. Okay, in order to do-up the zipper, I had to snake a piece of dental floss through the zipper's floppy-thing, hold the free end of the floss line up over my head, and drag the grating YKK unit to the top of its' path like a knowing dog to the vet's front door. This should have been a sign.

The dress and shoes were fine for standing, nothing else. The dress was certainly not designed as the go-to frock for those driving a 2008, Honda Odyssey van. I could not step up and scoot in like a normal person. Instead, I had to lay across the driver's seat on my right shoulder, swing my feet in and then right myself into position like a mermaid, or a child in a sleeping bag, pretending to be a Twizzler.

I'm not proud of this, but I'm telling you anyway.

I drove to the train, rode it into the city, then took the subway to my destination. This involved a fair bit of walking on platforms, through hallways, and up and down stairs, but I concentrated on breathing and focusing on exuding poise, instead of betraying what was essentially, the torture I was experiencing. 

It was raining when I came up onto the street. I was early, and though sporting a trench coat against the weather, considered ducking in for a cup of tea (still on coffee lock-down at this point), but then discovered a book store. I went in, willed myself back to the fiction stacks and began perusing. Moments later, a young man approached me and said, 

                 "Where can I find Orwell?"  

I took my alphabetic bearings, and directed him to the aisle where the O-authors would be. He seemed to understand, but then oddly walked past where I had directed him. I called to him, and staggered out so that I could point clearly at the section. He came back and stood looking at the titles, sort of. I watched him and sensed something was wrong. He spoke clearly, but I felt there was a good chance that English was not his first language. I posited that he was a university student, likely in science or engineering, and was forced to take an English literature course to fill a program requirement.

He noted that we were "in the M's," so I knew that he could read. I pointed to the beginning of the O's. He stepped in front of them, and said, out of the mouth on his own head, 

   "Well, why don't you just find it for me."

I was shocked. My body separated from my brain with said shock. I began to bend down, in the damn heels and dress from hell, but came-too just short of pulling the Orwell volumes out and handing them to him.  My dress, thankfully, inhibited the full effort at the same time as my self-respect leapt up and throttled my I'm a sucker reflex. I pointed instead. "There he is," I said, and fully expected him to say, with words, out of his face, "Thank you," at least. Perhaps even, "You've been very kind to help!" Instead, he said nothing. 

                            NO THING. 

Since I could not breathe properly in the dress, and therefore had stilted brain function, my biting reply of, "AND, if you happen to be looking for a book on MANNERS, you could find that in the Society-and-Not-Being-a-Dick section," was ten minutes too late, and I was pissed.

"Come ON Suzanne. THINK! THINK FASTER, damn it!" I vowed that this would never happen again. I would be ready and in-the-moment for the rest of my life. 

The next morning, while my van was having an oil change and general check-over, I went for a walk on a trail that backs onto my mechanic's garage. It was a cool, clear spring morning, early still, with the sun not that far away from the eastern horizon. I found myself on a part of the trail that borders the local golf course, and, though preoccupied with the previous night's lesson, I did note the first scatterings of hideously-outfitted golfers busy struggling with their balls, like puzzled, man-toddlers. I figured that this must have been opening day, as I had not seen any of their ilk on previous walks this spring. I must have been walking quietly as I pondered, because it wasn't until I was directly beside of the the tee's that I noticed one, rather hefty golfer, standing on the near side of the perfectly sculpted sod carpet with his pants undone and his ilk hanging out as he relieved himself into the rough. 

He was as startled as I was, having been hidden by the forest, until he wasn't. And there we were. I averted my eyes. "I'm coming along here," I said, which were the least impressive words that I could have said. "Well, good morning to you, too, and I'm sorry for your shortcomings," would have been respectable, or, "I'm sorry, fella. I don't have my reading glasses on so I can't help you find whatever you're searching for." How about, "Well, I'm sure you have other strengths?" 

It's just as well. The man with the dangling putter apologized. He wasn't being a jerk like the bookstore asshole, but a well-crafted quip still would have given me a satisfying feather-in-my-cap, or at least a sticker of some sort. 

"OKAY. SUZANNE. ENOUGH. No more missed opportunities."

Days later, I had the pleasure of heading to a lab for a chest X-ray, you know, just for fun, or, possibly because of my misbehaving lungs. I was second in-line in the lab's reception area. The door opened and I heard someone shuffle and groan their way to the third cue position behind me.  My spidey-senses lit up. "Christmas has come," I thought. There was more groaning. "I'm not letting this opportunity pass me by. I am ready-as-hell." 

The lady ahead of me finished her business with the receptionist. Instead of moving ahead, I turned around and looked at the woman standing behind me making the remarkable sounds of woe, and without hesitating, I said–I said, 

           "You should go ahead of me," 


and I stepped out of her way. She breathed a laboured sigh and said a weak, "Thank you." She moved ahead, offered up her health card, then leaned her head on her forearms on the counter like a relative on a coffin. The receptionist zipped the woman's card through the data-reader and handed it back. The woman took a seat, head bowed, arms cradling her abdomen. I handed over my data to the receptionist and sat down to wait. I pretended to read, but was too overwhelmed by the obvious pain this woman was in, to grok any of the words on the page.

In minutes, the woman was called to have her X-ray. I was relieved for her. Shortly afterward, I was called as well, shown to a change stall where I switched out my street clothes for  a snappy, blue cotton shroud. I pulled my curtain back, and sat on the bench to wait for my turn at the machine. Again, I pretended to read. The woman came out of the X-ray room, and headed into the stall next to mine to change back into her clothes. I heard the curtain draw back. She emerged, began walking and almost passed by me, but stopped. "Thank you very much," she said. I was deeply moved. 

"Hey, no problem. Feel better soon," I said. 

Finally. Sigh...