On Another Note

One morning last week, as I walked up to my car, I noticed what appeared to be a small business card tucked under the edge of my driver’s side window. Must be a marketing piece for a small business, I thought, some kind of Joe Blow & Sons tuckpointing or auto glass replacement enterprise. But as I got closer, I saw a note written in block letters, some in caps, with a red Sharpie marker.

PAY ATTN: You’re taking up 2 spaces, Be considerate.

Obviously, this note was not written by a gang banger or twenty-something who, addicted to texting, had forgotten the proper use of contractions. Outwardly, this note was written by someone who, like me, was concerned with maintaining civility and thoughtfulness in a society hell bent on propagating “me-me-me” thinking. Here was a call for more consideration, for God’s sake.

I became uncomfortable then outraged, then doubting. I watched myself go through a range of emotions and thoughts, enough to have consumed several talk therapy sessions with a seasoned social worker.

I contemplated my conscious intention to be respectful of others. For the most part, I think I bring a rare level of empathy to my dealings in the world. I try to consider people’s feelings and not make comments that might be unkind, non-instructive or without positive purpose. It bothered me that someone perceived my behavior as suspect, as lacking in this particular way. Then I watched my thoughts get really tangled up as I tried to see myself in the note-writer’s shoes.

Imagine driving down a street late one cold February night and seeing something you find so objectionable you have to rifle through your belongings to find a writing tool and swatch of paper then get out of your cozy car to rip off a note. Who would do such a thing?

After spending a few seconds upset that a stranger may have perceived me as impolite or inconsiderate, I got mad. I felt unfairly judged. How did this other driver know how much space I had in front of my car when I parked almost a day earlier? The parking configuration of any street changes constantly. I studied where I had parked for several minutes. The car was about three feet in front of an alley and about 2 feet behind a tan Toyota. No way could another car have fit legally in the area even if I parked closer to the car in front of mine. I became fixated on corroborating my point of view and found myself almost aggressively questioning passersby, dog-walkers mostly, who were more concerned with whether their Lab or Corgi had a good BM.

“Another car couldn’t fit here?” I blurted out as I looked into their faces. “Am I right?”

The two nearest dog-walkers agreed and shook their heads. (At the impossibility of the parking feat, I am assuming.)

I continued dancing arm in arm with my inner rant for a few days until I remembered the small pad of Post-It notes I carry in my car’s console. I have turned indignant on many occasions – after being cut off by taxi drivers or too-tall SUVs – where I would jot down license plate numbers thinking I would report them to some sort of bad drivers hotline, I suppose. These pages of scribbled notes usually made it to the trash in about a week. Some behaviors we see in the world certainly merit reporting, but so often, our reactions to someone else’s behaviors are about something else.

While I was busy worrying about whether I was being disrespected, by obsessing, I had started treating time itself without respect. In leaving her Pay Attention note on my car window, this driver may have been reacting to something that had little to do with me. Or, even in the case that I could have been more space conscious in how I parked, the worse possible consequence for this driver was that she had to park a half block away; a minor inconvenience. Rushing to claim victimhood and puffing up with righteous indignation is unproductive. It’s actually disrespectful to yourself and to time.

Sometimes life leads you to the perfect experience for reminding you what kind of person you want to be (and don’t want to be) -- and that’s no small thing.

The Independent

I have been exploring my new neighborhood. There’s a Family Dollar Store on Montrose just west of Western and an Aldi practically across the street. There’s a dry cleaner a block away. Not far down Irving Park Road, there are a few bars that feature craft brews on tap, burgers and the standard assortment of pub grub. Two 24-hour Walgreens and an express post office are within a mile. There is actually a Chase Bank and ATM within walking distance.

I only moved about two miles from my old apartment, but I like to walk and I like to support local businesses, so I am always on the lookout for little diners or ethnic stores and mom and pop shops.

Two weeks ago, a friend and long-time resident of the area asked, “Have you been to Harvestime yet? They have the best yogurt. I think it’s Greek.” She raved about their produce then went on to explain other things she likes to buy there. I had to check it out.

Harvestime is on a main street, not at the back of a mall. It has diagonal spaces for a few cars right under their day-glow cardboard signs announcing daily specials. There’s a small lot across the street with spaces for maybe twenty more cars. They have a large sign which towers awkwardly over their small parking lot. It's an odd hybrid of low-tech and hi-tech. A rotating LED display announces some of their weekly specials under a brightly painted scene of cartoonishly ripe fruits and vegetables suitable for an elementary school production set in a garden. Whenever I have gone there, I see an old Arabic man near the front entrance. He presides over a collection of white tube socks and novelties arranged on top of a blanket; all for sale, everything at great prices he'll call out to you, demanding eye contact despite your best intention to ignore him. A visit to Harvestime has some of the flavor of a excursion to a 3rd world bizarre.

Getting familiar with a new neighborhood grocery store is a little like dating. You have to understand if you want a long-term relationship or if you just want to run in and grab a few things. If you think you’ll become a regular shopper, you need to take some time. You have to learn what you can expect. You need to know what a store is good at, and you may have to accept some limitations too.

For instance, Harvestime has practically no frozen food section. This sort of grocs with my newly forming philosophy on food: Only eat food items with expiration dates on the packages or things that will obviously die within the week. Harvestime doesn’t have big sections with cleaning products either. So, I have gladly decided to save that type of shopping for less frequent visits to Target.

Harvestime does have an incredible selection of produce (maybe not certifiably organic, but as fresh as you can imagine); aisles of Spanish, Asian and Middle Eastern staples; and an array of specialty items that they make in their own kitchen. They have not one style of salsa, but about four. Plastic pint containers of olives are portioned out fresh from large glass barrels (from who knows where).

They make special purchases too. They must buy closeouts of unusual imports or overstock items that a distributor is happy to part with at bargain prices. Last week, I found cans of sardines in tomatoes imported from Spain, just like the salty snacks John and I enjoyed in Madrid. When I see the amazing selection within the limitations of space – after all, it is just an independent corner store – I think about all the relationships the owner or buyers must have with local producers and food brokers. In a business with notoriously low margins, I can’t help but wonder how a store like Harvestime can bring in fresh products and sell them at reasonable prices. My gut tells me that they can only do this by exercising discernment and choice.

Being the best at what you can be best at, not trying to be everything for everyone is no small thing.

Under Cover

This past week, I indulged in a couple late afternoon naps. I was working from home and early morning conference calls shortened my regular sleeping shift. Maybe I was grappling with sugar fluctuations, too – that sudden overwhelming feeling that your batteries have been pulled out. Or maybe it’s just winter, and I couldn’t fight the impulse to hibernate. (As my friend Lynne would say, “Hey, I’m only a mammal.”)

There’s a special pleasure in taking an afternoon nap. Small meditative retreats are nice; a few minutes where, with closed eyes, you can sit quietly behind a closed door. In a 24/7 world, it’s nice to claim time when you’re really not available. But a nap can seem to take self-care to another level.

Reclining, stretching out in a sort of weightless space feels wonderful. It triggers all sorts of endorphin-like releases. My breathing slows down. My thoughts slow down. The awareness that I am a body seems to melt into the couch or mattress, or blanketed piece of beach where I find myself. I also like the feeling of burying my chest and shoulders under the covers.

Aha. This is where a nap gets serious. If you are sitting on your office chair and nod off, that’s just taking “40 winks.” If you slip into sleep in front of the television and your mother or brother or sweetheart throws an afghan over you, then it’s an OFFICIAL nap. The presence of a covering adds a sort of seriousness to the intention to rest.

I have had a funny relationship with covers for most of my life.

I cannot sleep in beds where the covers are tucked in, hospital corner style. It makes me feel claustrophobic. I feel constricted throughout my body, not just below my ankles. I feel somehow trapped, limbless, immobilized. I have a ritual I do when I first step into a hotel room. After evaluating the quality of the décor and attention to comfort, after seeing what kind of mini bottles of shampoos and creams they offer on their bathroom hospitality trays and examining whether I can turn off the lights from the bed, I un-tuck the sheets so that I can kick out my feet and bathe my toes in oxygen while I slumber.

When I was a child, maybe around five years-old, our family had one air conditioner in our house; a nod both to comfort and the reality of household finances. It was planted in one of our large dining room windows, our dining room being a sort of central point of our bungalow. Here, we thought the Mighty Fedders, as if its cold breath could turn corners, would cool the whole house.

Anyway, I used to place a chair right in front of the behemoth blower, turn it up to “High Cool” and sit maybe 10 inches in front of it. With fluffy cotton quilt wrapped snuggly around my shoulders and chest, I would giggle with glee as the stream of chilling air would blow past my ears. My hair, I imagined, must have been flying behind my head like the colored streamers at Sears, the ones they dangled in front of their air conditioner display models in their appliance department to show off their power. I loved the kiss of cold air on my cheeks and the enveloping warmth around my shoulders. Eeeeee.

So even now, when I take a nap, my body, unconsciously, seems to want to find its own kind of perfect balance. My face and feet seek out fresh air and openness; my heart wants to rest in layers of warmth and constancy.

Feeling both free and mobile while immeasurably safe and protected is no small thing.

The Reading Room

When I was growing up, I remember the two upstairs bathrooms of our house as reading rooms. In the turquoise bathroom off my parents’ master bedroom, Herman Wouk’s Winds of War seemed to have taken up permanent residence. (My mother was a dedicated reader although obviously not a graduate of any Evelyn Wood Speed Reading course. Weeks may have gone by before page markings showed any progress.) With husband and daughters asleep, during late night hours, my mother used to like to smoke a cigarette on the toilet and read.

My sister Ronna’s favorite book, even in paperback, seemed too big to pick up and finish under any circumstances let alone in short bathroom sessions, yet I always spied it in the pink bathroom that we shared with our sister Barbara. At fourteen, I wondered how she could digest such a tome, yet I could count on her book being somewhere on the dull pink patterned vanity. She never got tired of reading and re-reading the classic. I never seemed to get beyond the first page.

“…Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”

I hadn’t thought about reading on the toilet for years, not until recently. John seems to have a library of magazines in his bathroom, and yes I have re-kindled my appreciation for the indulgence.

His bathroom library includes local magazines with restaurant reviews and a season’s worth of New Yorkers; maybe an issue or two of Esquire or The Atlantic. The New Yorker is always good for a cartoon if not for some kind of article on something I would never have thought about but will undoubtedly bring into conversations now that a subject’s been called to my attention. (Just the other week, I read about the popularity of workplace novels in China. Have you ever heard of the genre?)

Reading for pleasure or to stay culturally informed, reading without a goal of subject mastery, seems to be hard to make time for. Yes, people will crowd subway cars with their Kindles to kill time, reading page turners by virtually turning the pages. I will pick up junk magazines at the health club so I can pour over topics like “Which celeb looks best in the Michael Kors frock?” while I raise my heart rate and marvel at how much I can sweat. But this kind of reading does not impart the same pleasure. It's done to fill time. And reading to fill time between doing other things does not seem to confer the same level of reflection, sense of discovery or respect for language. Besides, some kinds of reading are done in public. And bathroom reading…it’s oh so private.

Isn’t it a special joy to retreat to a clean and quiet chamber and, accompanied by the barely audible buzz of the fluorescent tube, scan an issue of Rolling Stone and learn about some unsung hero, a Pentagon whistleblower, or contemplate the next restaurant you want to try after you have replenished your bank account a little? Bathroom reading is about private time, a luxury for sure. It’s also about openness and curiosity – and about paper.

Yes, I suppose you could consider me a Tory in the Cyber Revolution, but I love seeing words on paper, and I love the eclectic range and serendipity of what reading material you might find in someone else’s bathroom reading room. Maybe the bathroom is the last place someone would bring their laptop; the last android free zone. Maybe bathroom reading rooms represent the last place where we read what is in front of us, surrendering and respecting chance, and not pre-select material as the result of a Google search.

Having a private relationship with words and taking little reflective retreats – even in five minute doses – is no small thing.