A Girl...

Controlling Fear, in Two Parts

So now I'm all "Uh...duh...what?" I didn't think it was possible to think any more original thoughts on the topic of babiebabiesnownownow, but you've proven me wrong, Internet, so thanks for that. I'll send you a bill from my padded cell.

While I'm sorting subsequent thoughts into something resembling coherence, here's a little story called "You Can't Change People...Unless You Can."

Part I

This morning I saw a lady with one arm in a sling take the first step down a very long flight of stairs and then turn around to do some quick triangulation calculations about how she was going to get her rolling suitcase down the stairs too without crushing herself in the process. Old Me would have averted my eyes and hustled down the stairs past the obvious accident-about-to-happen, making sure to work up a very convincing look of Very Busy and In a Hurry and Can't Be Bothered so that no one would think I was just too self-absorbed to stop and help someone in obvious need of assistance. They would be right, of course; hell, I might even have considered walking an extra fifty feet to the next stairwell just to avoid the situation entirely, that's how advanced my avoidance skills are, especially at 8:30 in the morning.

But today, as soon as I saw the look of desperation on this poor injured woman's face as she contemplated the delicate trigonometry of suitcase/stair navigation, I surprised myself by making eye contact, asking if she needed some help, and then making polite small talk as I carried her suitcase down the stairs. I even wished her a good day before I walked off to catch my train, and, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, I didn't cringe when she called me a "darling." (I can't be the only one who absolutely loathes terms of endearment from strangers, especially old men, who seem to prefer "Honey" or "Sweetie." Um, I don't know you. Ick.).

All of this Good Samaritany kindness to my fellow (wo)man is brought to you courtesy of Simon, who is always helping stranded strangers fix flat tires, speaking in gentle, soothing tones to telemarketers, and giving up his seat on public transportation to anyone who looks even the tiniest bit old, pregnant, tired, poor, or even just a wee grumpy.

Apparently some of that simple charity has rubbed off on me, and lo and behold it wasn't really that big of a deal to commit one of those Random Acts of Kindness you hear so much about, albeit this was an itty-bitty one. (Note: Although I wasn't raised to be rude and dismissive of others, I was raised to be self-sufficient, which somewhere along the line I interpreted as "Every man for himself." For most of my life I've figured that if I can take care of my shit, everyone else should take care of his or hers and that's what keeps the world spinning. I'm learning to temper this attitude with a little bift of "Heal the world" philosophy now and then, and I think that's a good thing.)

So, you see, I have changed. Simon has changed me. I helped a woman carry her suitcase down the stairs--no, I helped a woman from being TRAGICALLY CRUSHED TO DEATH TEN DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS. I'm a frickin' holiday hero.

Somehow it's still all about me, see? There's work to be done yet.

Part II

Yesterday was my office party and since it proved to be too much for Simon and me to bring either homemade guacamole or Costco-made sushi to the potluck, we ended up contributing various items from our fridge that could be assembled into something resembling a cheese and meat platter. Among the things we served up were some half-eaten squares of paté, which were of questionable color around the edges, a detail that may or may not have anything to do with its having lived in our fridge for two and a half weeks wrapped in festive blue plastic wrap.

Now, being a person with a delicate digestive system and also a paranoid freak, the last thing I'm interested in is expired meat products, especially serving them to a bunch of people who know where I live. But Simon--not a man of delicate digestion himself--has convinced me over many months that expiry dates on yogurt and eggs and juice are merely suggestions, "guidelines," if you will, and based on the fact that I have not yet been poisoned to death*, I acquiesced to the plating of the paté.

Again: change, and behold how I have embraced it! I am not afraid to help strangers! I am not afraid to serve old paté! I'm not afraid anymore!

(But eat the old paté? No. Eat any paté at all? No. But allow paté to be kept in my fridge? Yes! Because I am a changed woman and I owe it all to him!)

*Poisoned, no, but Simon, honey, putting that "perfectly fine" Dec 6 milk into my Dec 13 cup of tea was a really bad idea and let's not try that again, m'kay?

Posted by Leah at December 14, 2006 04:09 PM