Life's Little Meanings

I’m always trying to read things into things, find meanings, connect dots, draw parallels. It’s an exhausting business, this being a deep thinker stuff, but I persist, because one day I’m pretty certain I’ll uncover the secrets of the universe.

I live in a nice, middle-class suburban neighborhood. Late this (Sunday) afternoon, I decided to walk to the hardware store, about three-quarters of a mile away, to buy a light bulb. Okay, so I was a little bit bored – cleaning my house was looking like the only other alternative to light-bulb-buying if I wanted to get away from all this thinking.

Anyway, I reached an intersection, just before cutting through this pocket park behind the library, and a little old guy in a little old Honda waved me across. I crossed.

Then he turned the corner, pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window. “Excuse me?”

I eyed him. 80, 85. Perfectly harmless. I’m the type that’s likely to snort at a flasher, and he hardly looked strong enough to suck air into his lungs, let alone me into the car. So, I walked over, thinking maybe he needed directions. “Yes?”

The moment I reached the window, he launched in. “My son—-out in California—-he weighed 350 pounds, but then he got this book by this doctor that was about how it’s really animal protein that causes all the problems, you see, with metabolism, you see, throwing off clots and all. And he followed that diet, and whammo--he dropped a hundred pounds in a year.”

“He did?” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Yes, and I tried it, and I used to weigh 180, but now I’m down to 145.” He patted his skinny stomach and looked meaningfully at my not-so-skinny stomach. “I just had to tell you.”

I waited a beat to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t. I immediately decided I would never, ever, never wear this particular pair of shorts again. Or this shirt.

I glanced down, just noticing the box of wine on the passenger seat. Ah. But I still wouldn’t wear these shorts or this shirt. “What was the name of the book?” I asked.

“Heart Attacks Start in the Liver.”

“And so does cirrhosis,” I muttered to myself, watching him drive off.

I pulled out my cell phone. He reached the top of the street, made a U-turn.

“My God.” I relayed the incident to my friend. “You’re supposed to be my friend. If I look this bad, you’re supposed to tell me before people take pity and start hailing me on the street.”

The little old man pulled even with me. The window came down, and he called out. “Hemp.”

“What?”

“HEMP! Best additive you can get.” He rolled off.

I stared after him. For long, long moments.

I promise you I’m not lying about this.

As I returned from the hardware store, carrying a little bag with my light bulb tucked inside, I crossed the pocket park parking lot. The little old man was long gone. But a little old lady was getting out of her little old Buick.

She directed a hostile stare at me. “You got a dog?”

I do, but my dog was at home. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then, you wanna tell me why you’re carryin’ a poop bag?”

“I—it’s a light bulb,” I stammered, walking on.

She stared after me.

I’m honestly not making this up.

As I continued home, I started my usual pondering. I wondered what the connection was between my two encounters, wondered if I was meant to buy a book about livers and heart disease and how that related to dog manure (yes, I know, but I was seeking something deeper than that), and searched for a possible reason everyone had forgotten to take their meds that morning.

I finally concluded there was no deep meaning beyond the obvious indication that I should stay on the diet I started seven days ago, and, really, that doesn’t take a whole lot of thought. Sometimes things just... are. And maybe that’s one of the big secrets of the universe.

Sitting Like a Lump

I signed up for e-Harmony. And, wow, I’m finding it as much fun as... well, job hunting or trying to market one of my manuscripts or maybe selling Amway. Not that I’ve sold Amway, but I’m just saying.

On e-Harmony, you create a profile, they send you other peoples’ profiles, you pick and choose and wink and wave hi, and sometimes you get really brave and send a few questions for the other person to answer... And then once that flurry of activity passes... we all sit there like lumps staring at each other. It reminds me of junior high dances and why I’ve never been huge on wallowing around in nostalgia.

But it occurs to me that this is very similar reaction to how I face most decisions. I sit there like a lump. Because to choose one thing, means to not choose the others. What if I would have been happier with something else? (And can someone tell me why I think I could ever possibly know that?) And, omigod, what if I choose... and then something better comes along? (And how could I ever possibly know that, either?)

A wise friend of mine recently said, with a fond sigh... maybe, actually, an exasperated sigh, but, I try to choose a glass-half-full perspective...

Anyway, she said, “Jerri, make a decision. If it doesn’t turn out all right...

“Then make another decision.” (She didn’t add “for God’s sake” but I think she wanted to.)

And, okay, it was probably an exasperated sigh.

A few entries ago, I wrote about how your best hope is as likely to occur as your worst fear. Similarly, it’s just as likely you’ll enjoy the consequences of a choice, instead of suffer them. (Once again, I’m cribbing from a daily reading.) And if there’s no decision made at all... well, then we all sit there like lumps. Growing lumpier.

So, I’m off to “wink” and “wave hi” and “nudge” “my matches” into doing the same. (Are we having fun yet, or what?) Then I’m checking into Amway because this job-hunt and market-a-manuscript thing isn’t going that well, either.