Dreaming

In the moments just after waking, it feels inexplicably pressing to remember every detail of your nightly visions. That the world you are trying to recall had, only a few minutes ago, been inseparable from reality, makes uncoiling dream life and waking life essential. Did you really run your toothbrush along the inside of a toilet bowl? Are all your teeth still in place? Are you at the bottom of a cliff? Did your sister really promise you five hundred dollars if you could touch your elbow to your tongue, and can you really touch your elbow to your tongue? The sense of urgency dwindles as one moves further and further into wakefulness and grogginess is overtaken by the aroma of scrambled eggs or the nudge of unfinished work, but even then, you are left uneasy. It is as though you are dimly aware of the fact that what your dreams consist of is not merely the stuff of fantasy, but something from the periphery of another life, lingering on after it has penetrated the guise of one that you are in.

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.

The art of surprising yourself

There is no surprise like one you leave for yourself. Perhaps it is the chicken salad sandwich you left in your purse several days ago because you decided to eat a granola bar instead, the sweaty socks you crammed into the recesses of your backpack after basketball practice last Tuesday, the roll of dollar bills you accidentally left in the medicine cabinet the last time you were looking for band-aids.

Why wait for others to leave you surprises when you can take care of it yourself? Save a slice of cake and hide it behind the leftovers in your refrigerator. Stow a couple of quarters into a bag you've forgotten you had. By the time you rummage through the leftovers from last week, or unearth that bag again during spring cleaning, that cake, those quarters will have become gifts, far exceeding their original value. The delight and self-congratulation that comes with these discoveries, the certainty that there are more blessings to stumble across and the freshness of suddenly looking forward to the day ahead. You are charmed, all because you thought to keep a few coins buried away.

Then again, there are surprises you probably don't want to leave for yourself. Overdue phone bills, smelly laundry, fingernail clippings, unrefrigerated ice cream, expired gift cards. The homework assignment you accidentally left between the pages of your biology textbook and did not find until the morning it was due. The coupon for free yogurt you finally collected enough stamps on but never got around to using until it was too late. These surprises spring out from nowhere and pound away at your optimism and measure of self-worth. At these moments, you lament the loss of free yogurt and the curse of your own forgetfulness.

Until you find the surprise you left for yourself in the medicine cabinet, and the world is right once more.