An Epiphany
I found this on my laptop. Apparently I started this gem in January and never got around to finishing or posting it. Here it is now, for your reading enjoyment.
Last Wednesday, I had an epiphany. Not the kind of epiphany where three kings travel far across a desert and wander into my stable offering gifts of rare, exotic metals and spices. No. This was one of those lightening-bolt-hits-you-in-the-head moments when everything in life seems perfectly clear for a split second and you have the option to act on that clarity or keep trudging along.
There I was, at the local mall waiting in line to meet my favorite Pittsburgh Pirates as part of the organization's annual Winter Caravan. I thought the autograph session began at 6 p.m., so I arrived not much later than 5 p.m. to get a "good spot" in line. Few people were there, so I did a little shopping and finally secured my spot--within the first 50 people--around 5:30 p.m.
I've always excelled at standing in line. Finances, math and business boggle my mind, but I'm fantastic at line-standing. The only time I get angry or impatient is if someone invades my personal space. Stand too close to me and chances are I'll give you a dirty look before the night's over. That's all that really annoys me.
So there I was, doing what I do best, and I noticed that the man in front of me had a 2005 pocket schedule. I hadn't seen one yet, so I casually asked him where he got it. Turns out he had an extra, so he handed me a copy and I settled in to read for a little while. The gentleman who had given me the schedule asked me a simple question--possibly something about the upcoming fan fest--and from that point on, I don't think we stopped talking. He was around my parents age and not the least big scary (and really, it was the middle of the mall with tons of security guards in the vicinity). The conversation ranged from baseball to dentistry (he was a dentist) and most things in between.
This talk-with-a-stranger-for-hours scenario isn't new to me. On almost every flight I've been on, I've met people who have been content to chat the trip away. I inherited it from my mom, who, within five minutes of meeting someone knows who they are, where they live, who they're related to and what they do for a living. The gift of gab is apparently genetic. Once I went to a baseball game alone, ended up sitting by a Canadian minister and his friend, and by the fifth inning knew both their life stories. Another time I was on the standby list for a flight to Las Vegas and chatted with the person ahead of me on the list. He got on the flight--seat 16F--and I was stuck at the airport. The next day, waiting for my early morning plane, I met the girl who was supposed to be 16F the night before. On another flight, my random seat neighbor and I kept the back two rows of the plane laughing from Pittsburgh to Charlotte. By the time we touched down, perfect strangers were telling us we were the funniest people they'd ever met. I'll probably never see him again--that band director from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina--but for two hours of turbulence, he was my best friend.
What's my point, you might ask, and I'll tell you. Standing in that autograph line with Harvey the Dentist, I realized what I'm really good at. I can talk to people. Maybe it's my perky attitude or curly hair, but complete strangers somehow feel comfortable enough with me that they let their guard down. I don't know how much good it will do me in life, but it was nice to leave the mall that night knowing that Harvey would probably go on to remember the short, round writer from a local university who wants to work for the Pirates someday.
So what do I do with this gift? How does it change my struggle to master the maze of life? It reminds me that I have the power to do something with these stories from the people I meet. With patience and a little creativity, I can use my gift for gab to be a better writer--with any luck, a phenomenal writer. I may not be famous now, I might just be scraping by, but a stranger will remember me. And I'll remember his story.
Then someday, he'll be standing in line for my autograph at a book signing, because he remembers the local girl who made good. And he'll say he knew me when.
Last Wednesday, I had an epiphany. Not the kind of epiphany where three kings travel far across a desert and wander into my stable offering gifts of rare, exotic metals and spices. No. This was one of those lightening-bolt-hits-you-in-the-head moments when everything in life seems perfectly clear for a split second and you have the option to act on that clarity or keep trudging along.
There I was, at the local mall waiting in line to meet my favorite Pittsburgh Pirates as part of the organization's annual Winter Caravan. I thought the autograph session began at 6 p.m., so I arrived not much later than 5 p.m. to get a "good spot" in line. Few people were there, so I did a little shopping and finally secured my spot--within the first 50 people--around 5:30 p.m.
I've always excelled at standing in line. Finances, math and business boggle my mind, but I'm fantastic at line-standing. The only time I get angry or impatient is if someone invades my personal space. Stand too close to me and chances are I'll give you a dirty look before the night's over. That's all that really annoys me.
So there I was, doing what I do best, and I noticed that the man in front of me had a 2005 pocket schedule. I hadn't seen one yet, so I casually asked him where he got it. Turns out he had an extra, so he handed me a copy and I settled in to read for a little while. The gentleman who had given me the schedule asked me a simple question--possibly something about the upcoming fan fest--and from that point on, I don't think we stopped talking. He was around my parents age and not the least big scary (and really, it was the middle of the mall with tons of security guards in the vicinity). The conversation ranged from baseball to dentistry (he was a dentist) and most things in between.
This talk-with-a-stranger-for-hours scenario isn't new to me. On almost every flight I've been on, I've met people who have been content to chat the trip away. I inherited it from my mom, who, within five minutes of meeting someone knows who they are, where they live, who they're related to and what they do for a living. The gift of gab is apparently genetic. Once I went to a baseball game alone, ended up sitting by a Canadian minister and his friend, and by the fifth inning knew both their life stories. Another time I was on the standby list for a flight to Las Vegas and chatted with the person ahead of me on the list. He got on the flight--seat 16F--and I was stuck at the airport. The next day, waiting for my early morning plane, I met the girl who was supposed to be 16F the night before. On another flight, my random seat neighbor and I kept the back two rows of the plane laughing from Pittsburgh to Charlotte. By the time we touched down, perfect strangers were telling us we were the funniest people they'd ever met. I'll probably never see him again--that band director from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina--but for two hours of turbulence, he was my best friend.
What's my point, you might ask, and I'll tell you. Standing in that autograph line with Harvey the Dentist, I realized what I'm really good at. I can talk to people. Maybe it's my perky attitude or curly hair, but complete strangers somehow feel comfortable enough with me that they let their guard down. I don't know how much good it will do me in life, but it was nice to leave the mall that night knowing that Harvey would probably go on to remember the short, round writer from a local university who wants to work for the Pirates someday.
So what do I do with this gift? How does it change my struggle to master the maze of life? It reminds me that I have the power to do something with these stories from the people I meet. With patience and a little creativity, I can use my gift for gab to be a better writer--with any luck, a phenomenal writer. I may not be famous now, I might just be scraping by, but a stranger will remember me. And I'll remember his story.
Then someday, he'll be standing in line for my autograph at a book signing, because he remembers the local girl who made good. And he'll say he knew me when.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home