Thank you = Wingardium Leviosa

While there is little in common between a Shakespearean drama and a supermarket (then again, writing is often about connecting what should not be connected), both manage to capture a vibrant and intriguing cross-section of the human race. Clownish employees, teenage drama queens, a secret colony of little people who know more than they let on-apparently people of all sorts need groceries, and it is amusing to watch those who join parade. 

There are also people who are not endearingly eccentric or quintessential, but merely unbearable. People who shove, snatch, cut lines for food samples, and are inexplicably rude. And though I am bound to encounter at least one such specimen between getting more toilet paper and trying to find cucumbers still wrapped in bubble wrap, I am always taken by surprise when I do. 

I would like to think that what bothered me later as I sifted through the selection of TV dinners was a bout of righteous anger, but there is little to justify such wrath. The man did not wrestle away a bottle of shampoo I was sniffing, insult me for speaking English loudly with my sister, or even ram his shopping cart into the box of bottled water on purpose. He did nothing but maneuver his shopping cart around me as I shuffled over to help him right the box, did nothing but fail to utter two, monosyllabic words of gratitude. And it was this omission that haunted me. His failure to say thank you plagued me so deeply that I continued to rant to Emily for the next forty minutes as we tried to lay out such discourtesy in logical terms. Did he think I was the cleaning lady? Had he been distracted by the new loofahs on display? Was he mute-perhaps his tongue been cut out by pirates? And because I often relish over-analyzing my own actions when others do not act as I expect them to, I then tried to remember if I had grimaced or drooled, if my nose had been dripping or my neckline too low.

It is easy to overlook the little courtesies. Words like "excuse me" and "thank you" have little practical value, and there is no doubt that I am perfectly capable of getting that bag of flour for you whether or not you begin your request with a "could you" or "please." And yet, these words have become part of a ritual that is repeated hundreds of times each day because they serve to assure those around us that nothing is amiss. That the world that they know is still in place, and that the flimsy decrees governing human interaction still stand. Excuse me, I just need to get through to the stairs, don't worry, I am not being chased by a hungry mob of pirates that may trample you all in the next few minutes, or cut out your tongues. Bless you, I am sure your sneeze is just a cold and not some incurable fungal infection that will eventually spread to your liver. Thank you, the box of bottled water has been efficiently rearranged, and we can now go on with our lives. Everything is as it should be.

Of course, it would be melodramatic and absurd to say that I am now unable to go on with my life. And perhaps someone less prone to unnecessary analysis would have simply forgotten the encounter the second it ended. But the exchange that failed to take place in that bottled water aisle today wasted an evening of my life, and that, boys and girls, is why "please and thank you are called the magic words." 

Eating watermelon

When eating a slice of watermelon, it is necessary to start from the bottom and work your way up, even if this means gnawing though several inches of tough, tasteless rind. This way, when the white flesh and stringy fibers have been digested, there will be left a single tip of perfectly orchestrated sweetness. The pinnacle of your watermelon experience. With this, all the sour bits, the disappointing bits lose meaning, and you can no longer remember when things were not so sweet, or you were not this content. 

To think what life would be if this phenomenon could apply to all things. A difficult semester, a new job, a rocky romance. What if all the best parts, the worthwhile bits, were saved for the end? What if you could wallow into the mire with the conviction that it was only going to get better from there? Not only do you get your custom-made happy ending, but it becomes something you have earned, something not merely bestowed or stumbled upon by chance, but planned for and now savored.

If only life could be eaten like a watermelon slice.

A taste of greatness

The transition from disgusting smugness to crippling self-doubt is almost always disorienting. Unless you are already familiar with the feeling, in which case there is nothing but numb resignation. Here we go again.

The cycle usually begins with unexpected boost in confidence. Perhaps someone "liked" your Facebook status, or you stumbled across yet another article on Paris Hilton's escapades. Their generous displays of support convince you that you are worth that thumbs-up on the screen, and their flagrant stupidities somehow allow you to forgive your own faults. You pull out your victories and lovingly polish them. For a moment, you are inconquerable. You are certain you will write a national bestseller, save the children, and change the world, all before the age of 21.

Of course, this lasts fleetingly. A self-image built on external sources has limited warranty, and you are inevitably reminded that you are merely mortal. That you cannot spell "occasionally" without using spellcheck, that you find basic math challenging, and that you are not a child prodigy. (It doesn't help that there are child prodigies out there.)Your newly acquired optimism and confidence crumble like the cheap wafers you find at supermarkets, the kind that flake all over your couch even though the packaging reads "crumb-free." Even the simplest tasks begin to seem like insurmountable obstacles, and you wonder how you could have possibly imagined accomplishing anything more complicated than brushing your teeth. Everything you write, everything you draw, everything you think seems worthless. No matter how desperately you flounder, you cannot cling to that energy that bubbled inside you only a moment ago, an almost irrepressible feeling that made you want to go out into the world and do good for mankind. Now you just want to rummage through the refrigerator and each whatever you happen to find. Even you are surprised by how much you despise yourself at that very moment, now that the effects of self-delusion have worn off. The only book you will ever write is an address book, and because you have tasted greatness, you are all the more bitter for it.