When Humility Bites You in the Ass

           You could say that I was mad.  Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe that since I am perfection personified but that day I was just angry.  I had million things to do – classes, laundry, dishes, saving the world, you know, the usual. 

           

           I was on edge.  Anxiety was kicking in big time.  I tried very hard to behave like my cat who radiates wisdom and calmness through her nonchalant alertness.  But it was not working.  The harder I tried, the more problems I faced.  Suddenly, it felt like I was running into myself, not aware of my extremities.

            In the midst of the apocalyptic raptures of my mind, I had enough sense to realize that it is lunch time.  The clock told me so, as did my stomach.  The repeated growling was like a chime – time to eat, time to eat, time to eat. 

            To save time, I went to the local grocery store.  I was determined to accomplish two tasks: 1) to get the necessary ingredients for dinner, which inevitably sneaks up on you and then in absolute hunger you scramble around the house wondering what to eat and you didn’t have any plans and you’re eating pretzels to curb the hungry beast, and 2) to buy something prepared, like a sandwich so you can have that quick lunch.

            The grocery store is not far but you still have to drive out there.  Keep in mind, that there are those “million” things which I have to do, and so I am determined to get this done pretty quickly.  I enter the grocery store, and like some terminator-like machine, I zero in on different departments – meat, vegetables, prepared foods.    

            As I expected, I am fast.  I go to the check-out lane, and there is this kid that looks like an adolescent, pimpled version of Elvis Costello.  He seems ok.  I try not to be judgmental.  I don’t want to be one of those old foggies who criticize young whipper snappers.  You know, I am only thirty-four, so it would be quite unbecoming and mostly weird.

            The Elvis Costello-Boy packs everything in one bag. 

            “You got everything in one bag!”, I exclaim.  I am not sure whether I am trying to praise him for his good bagging effort or if I am trying to check (through half-hearted praise) whether he really got everything in there.

            “Yes, I did,” says Elvis Costello.

            As he hands me the bill, I ask him one more time, “so, everything’s in?”  He assures me that everything’s a-ok.  Dear Reader, you must know by now where this is going.  You can just picture me in slow motion, taking the receipt, happily getting into my car, coming home, getting the groceries out, and then that back-and-forth camera close-up, a look of horror – my sandwich is not here!  MY SANDWICH IS NOT HERE!  MY GODDAM SANDWICH IS NOT HERE! 

            I was furious.  I mean, who wouldn’t be?  I could feel the weight of my body.  I didn’t want to go back to the store and deal with all that stuff but I did pay for the sandwich and I wasn’t about to eat pretzels covered in large portions of Nutella even if at the time it seemed that such a thing constitutes a meal. 

            And so I went back, with the receipt in hand.  I was putting on “the I am an annoyed customer and I will take my business elsewhere” face, but I must admit, pretty badly.  I walked in, walked up to the cash register, and Elvis Costello gives me a look of recognition.  I quickly said, “you forgot to put the sandwich in the bag.”

            He becomes quite apologetic, and I quickly tell him not to worry.  He is just a kid, after all.  I leave and there is still a small whiff of fury in the air.  A smelly cloud surrounding me.  At this point, I am a hungry bear and I need my food. 

            I am driving in a very aggressive way, stomping on breaks at the STOP sign.  “Get me home!” my interior voice is yelling.  Just then, as I stopped, a man is walking across the street.  I recognize him.  I have seen him before in our neighborhood.  He lives in a halfway house near us, which houses people with different types of mental retardation (is that the correct way to speak about that these days, or am I being totally politically incorrect?). 

            He walks in a stilted way, almost like an idiot savant.  He sees me and gives me the biggest wave ever, along with smile, and a very loud, enthusiastic “hello.”  I imagine he does that with everyone, but heck, I feel special at the moment.  Just as energetically, I wave back and smile from my car.

            As I pass him, I start to laugh, and I mean laugh.  A big, belly laughter.  I was laughing at the absurdity of my “sandwich saga” and my anxiety.  Suddenly, all anxiety, and most certainly fury, disappeared.  The only thing, which remained was laughter.  Unexplainable, not even aimed at anything or anyone.  I did think of God at that moment.  And then I laughed some more.

            And I did have that lunch soon afterwards.