In spite of the general and specific terrors of living with other humans, for some reason, I have been enjoying my interactions with people. I think it has something to do with the what-the-heck feeling I've been having at the prospect of my life imploding. I can afford to be magnimous. After all it might be my last chance to live my mantra, which last time I checked was to be loving and kind to others. Opportunities to practice abound.
"That's the stuff," I said.
She figured out the price for the size that will fit my bed platform. I was thrilled. It was a fraction of what I would have spent ordering online. Plus, I got to see the inside of a foam factory while I waited for them to cut my little piece of foam. I stood at the edge of the waiting area (no customers allowed past this line) and perused the big open space with the same delight I might have eyeballed a lovely waterfall or the cliff dwellings of Montezuma Castle.
Foam was stacked to the ceiling in places. A couple of really young women in tight jeans wrapped huge sofa cushions in plastic and stacked them in a pile near the loading door. Two men were running slabs of foam through a giant metal contraption. One of those slabs probably turned into my mattress, but it was too far across the factory for me to see.
After about ten minutes, a short Latino man approached carrying what was obviously my specially cut mattress.
"You want wrap plastic?" he said. I could tell he was hoping I would say no, and I did. No plastic for me, I like my slab of foam commando. I thanked him, grinning like an idiot. He probably thought I was mental. I took my new mattress out into the sunshine and loaded into the back of my car on top of the scrap wood I have to return to my storage unit this week. The van configuration is almost complete.
So now I have two foam mattresses, one firm and dense, the other twenty year old mush that never was particularly firm, even when it was the new cushion for my home-built couch at the Love Shack in Portland. It's lost its mojo, after twenty years, if it ever had any. I'm sitting on it right now, actually. It's not an ideal typing situation, according to my arthritic hip, but it's not terrible to sleep on, even though I've violated it with my bread knife a few times, carving it in stages into something that could travel with me to Tucson.
More interactions. Today I was at the store picking up a prescription for one of the drugs that makes it possible for my heart to refrain from murdering me. I smiled at the pharmacist and got a mildly pleasant response. I let shoppers with their carts go ahead of me and got smiles in return. I smiled at the cashier at the self-service register and she gave me a wide, gap-toothed grin and told me to have a nice day.
I got in my car, ignoring the check engine light (my nemesis reappeared yesterday on my drive from Phoenix to Tucson). As I was maneuvering toward the exit, I saw a little car with a flat tire. An elderly woman was at the wheel. I pulled around and rolled my window down.
"I have a flat tire!" she said.
"I see that!" I said. "Do you have someone coming to help you?" I tried to imagine me parking my car and attempting to help her change a flat tire. Right. I've changed, what, like one flat tire in my life? That was not recently, as you can imagine.
"I'm calling Triple A," she nodded, letting me off the hook. "I have a car full of frozen food!"
"Oh, no!" I commiserated, adding some appropriate hand gestures to express my sorrow at her plight.
We smiled at each other. I wished her luck. I pulled my car around in a circle and headed out of the parking lot, feeling like I'd connected with another human, even though I was completely useless as a potential solution to her problem. I offered her empathy rather than actual help, but sometimes just knowing someone cares enough to check and express compassion can be enough to help us show up with courage. She was in no danger. I just hope Triple A didn't keep her waiting too long.
What if I approached all my interactions with a caring heart? Good Samaritans don't always survive their altruism, sadly. But what is the point of living if we are always circling the wagons to keep ourselves safe? Total safety is an illusion.
