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While I know I shouldn’t take pleasure in others’ misfortune, there was something delicious in enjoying the difficulty the young man was experiencing when trying to return a stray shopping cart back into the grocery store parking lot.

He fought bravely against the perimeter electronic wheel lock mechanism that’s supposed to keep the carts from straying in the first place.

I give him credit for his tenacity.

He kept trying to return the cart from whence it came.

And it kept stopping on him. Over. And over. And over.

And I laughed, inside. Loud. Uproarious. Exuberant.

And almost felt guilty for it.

Let me set the scene for you. It was a day. Probably a weekday. Or maybe a weekend. Either way, it was a day nonetheless, these details unimportant. There was an air of hustle and bustle in the streets. Cars and people and bikes all doing their things.

I was in one of those cars – I recall that clearly – on a one way street. I was the driver. In full control with hands firmly grasped at 9 o’clock and 3 o’clock, hook grip engaged. Ready for exquisite maneuvering.

This is an important detail because the parking was on the left side, not the right side.

Like those memories from our youth, the ones that bring an immediate sense of joy, the late summer drives to get ice cream with the family, or the birthday trips to Chuck-E-Cheese, the synaptic connections that evoke happy times have seared this event forever in my psyche.

It was the day I nailed a left sided parallel park. With an onlooker looking on.

It was a young woman in her late 80s to early 90s who had stopped on the sidewalk to watch. Her bespectacled peepers creepered me intently. I could feel them, her gaze unwavering. 

The pressure was on

I nailed it.

In that one deft movement, I had smoothly guided my ride into the tight spot between the two previously parked cars, on the opposite side than usual. Out gushed my breath in a jubilant sigh, not even having realized I’d been holding it under the intense judgement of her obvious surveillance. That dizzying, giddy rush filled my brain as my next deep inhale replenished my oxygen stores.

I turned to meet her gaze, the valve opened, pressure released.

In that moment, in her eyes, I saw admiration. That twinkle of acknowledgement, a glimmer of kinship forged beyond the ages, one that transcended time and place. The corners of her mouth, showing the beginnings of a smile. She gifted me a slight nod of her babushka-clad head as she slowly and gingerly wheeled past my park job on her top-of-the-line 4-wheeled Nexus walker. As she haltingly glided beyond me, her voice, clear and strong, broke our silent communication:

Perfect back up parking, my dear. I would know, I used to drive. I loved driving. Wish I could still do it.

And then, while basking in all my glory, I looked up to realize the big, visible sign clearly stating local permit parking only.

Of which I was neither local, nor permitted.

My phone rang.

That sharp sound, known but so foreign at the same time. Recognizable in its sonorous cry. It was startling. Piercing. Unexpected. Enough so that I was abruptly roused from my mindless, zombie-esque social medial scrolling. That pang of adrenaline surging through my body.

Who uses the phone these days for actually calling? It’s almost to the point of being unacceptable to ring someone without textual warning first. 

You know:

Potential caller/bestie: Hey…is it okay if I call you?

[pregnant pause for dramatic effect]

Me: Ugh…

Potential caller/bestie: My fingers are broken and I can’t type, I would message if I could.

Me: Fine.

With a large dose of apprehension and spine-tingling trepidation, I pressed the green “answer” button to connect the call from that vaguely familiar, yet still mysterious number, and proffered my greeting because enquiring minds want to know.

Hello?

A moment of silence, that dead chasm of space in which the mind questions the absurdity of it all, of life, of purpose, before that familiar click. The connection instantaneously synchronized through fibre optics and satellites, from tower to tower, bits and bytes hurtling through the ether to bring two people audibly together.

A voice like no other I’d heard before greeted me. Saccharine and polished. Each utterance articulated clearly and precisely. No wasted words. To the point. Nothing was left to my imagination.

It wasn’t who I was expecting but the request was the same. The same entreaties as I’d heard dozens of times before. The same offers. Same same but different.

Apparently The Captain has been fired.

Or there has been a mutiny most foul in these here digital seas.

Amy is now the one calling to give me a free Bahamas cruise for answering a short survey, giving out my bank account info, my credit card numbers, my mother’s maiden name, and my DNA sequence.

The world around us, if paid attention to, is an incredible teacher.

From her, I’ve learned the art of practicing patience in the most interesting of ways.

For example, one time when I took my reheated leftovers out of the microwave, my fingers tingled in anticipation.

I mean, I’ve been counting down the seconds. Tick. Tock. You know exactly what I experience because you’ve probably done the same. Waiting there. Watching the countdown timer count down.

Knowing that soon, delicious food will be coaxed into your eagerly waiting mouth on its way to your just as eagerly waiting belly.

We all do this. It’s normal. It’s natural.

Perhaps it was homemade leftovers. Or even leftovers from that fancy Italian place you finally checked out last night. There’s a good chance that the flavours have all soaked in, marinated, and it will taste even better.

You are primed. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Just like I was.

You KNOW that anticipation that courses through your body. That elevates all your senses. Just like I felt all the way to my finger tips.

But then I realized that it wasn’t anticipatory tingling I felt, but burning. Not just any burning, but burning of the flesh. Of my finger tips.

And it hurt.

So I put the freshly nuked container down.

And waited again.

Tick. Tock.

The Art of Practicing Patience.

During my morning commute to work recently, I came to a most unfortunate conclusion. It wasn’t something I was expecting to learn, but life, uh, finds a way.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear

It was one of those moments when you realize that there’s something different about you…that somehow, you’re missing out. That you’re not the same as those around. That something is missing.

That you’re less than.

It was a drive that started almost like any other – the sky was clear, the air was still, just like the traffic at the red light, and at least 2 raccoon carcasses were deftly navigated around, lest they soil the dust and grime that already encapsulated my Blue Belle.

It was at this moment that my eyes were foisted upon the scene. Not once, not twice, but three times. There may have even been more that I just didn’t notice. It was a lot to take in at once.

And it was all at the same red light.

The driver in the car directly to my left. The driver in the car directly to my right. Even the driver in a stopped car going the opposite direction.

All of them. Every single one.

I was surrounded by it. Encircled. I couldn’t miss it if I tried.

The evidence was there. Insurmountable. Incontrovertible.

I am crushed to say it, but I must have a boring crotch.

Terry Vlisidis

There has been something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you for a while now…

Have you ever tasted that warm lemony soup they bring out at the end of a Swiss Chalet meal?

It was like a bonus to the meal and wasn’t even listed on the menu!

In my opinion, it could use a lot more flavour, but still, you can’t beat the taste of free lemon soup.

While walking to the gym a while back in my recently rediscovered, form fitting Lululemon long pants, a woman passing beside me on the sidewalk to my right reaches out and touches my right buttock with her intricately manicured left hand.

My first instinct, as is the norm for most reasonable people, was to believe it was an accident caused by the reciprocal swinging of her arms in gait propulsion, one of those innocuous brushes that we just pretend didn’t happen so as not to cause undue awkwardness or embarrassment to all parties involved.

Then I felt it again, almost immediately, with nary a refractory period. It was different this time. Forceful yet curious. Scientific.

I turn, as that was unexpected, and while maintaining my purposeful stride look at her quizzically.

She matches my pace, meets my gaze, and says simply:

It’s so soft!

To which, obviously, in a flash of seething anger burst forth my acrid retort:

HOW DARE YOU?! I do a lot of squats for that ass!

Without breaking stride she says: “I was talking about your pants.”

And with those 6 words, and accompanying punctuation, all was right in the world again.