I was sitting in my van at the library, passing the time until I could go sign on the dotted line, people watching. An elderly couple came out to their car, which was parked directly across from me. She was carrying a bag of books and he had the key fob in his hand. With a slight flourish he pointed it in the direction of the car's trunk, pressed down on it, only to have nothing happen. The same flourish, evoking a your wish is my command my dear sentiment, was repeated several times. He did it with such grace that I swear there was this invisible, wordless little bow within his gesture.
I sat there and watched this, enjoying his flourish. When nothing happened he eventually walked over and opened the trunk the old fashioned way, with a key. She clunked her bag of books inside it and he closed the trunk for her. As he turned towards the driver's door my first thought was, oh, he has man boobs. My next thought was that really doesn't matter in the whole scope of life. How has he maintained, or learned, when flourishes fall flat, to take it in his stride and do the next right thing? There was no look of discouragement on his face, in fact, there was still a hint of the flourish in the very way he walked. I sat there and hoped I would be like that when I was his age. Better late than never, right?
Yesterday I went to town for my home group AA meeting only to get there and find the meeting had been cancelled. As we pulled up, a woman from my group was just getting off her bike. We talked for a moment before deciding to have our own little meeting a few blocks away at Dairy Queen. It was a beautiful sunny day and we agreed to meet outside at one of the tables. Dearest one dropped me off and I had an hour to gab and listen, gab and listen. A coupon for a free ice cream cone got me a nice cold treat. I momentarily wondered if it was safe to eat it, seeing how dairy is one of my allergies and I had no medication along to quell the intestinal drama that might follow. Oh what the hell I thought and thoroughly enjoyed both the company of my friend and the soothing coolness of the cone.
I have a really hard time trusting women in recovery. I tend to think they're the enemy. I'm hoping to get that sorted out when I go to rehab. I think it must have something to do with my mom being the alcoholic parent in my life. This woman from my group is one of 2 women in recovery so far who I feel comfortable with. She is honest and vulnerable in a non threatening way. We were sharing our journeys with one another, talking about our issues when she couched hers in this way,"I'm attached to my shit", meaning she doesn't share her issues easily and she only lets go of them when she's ready.
God has a huge sense of humour. Trust me. I sat there listening to her share her journey, when my soon-to-unfold intestinal drama nudged me. Before I had a chance to say anything - like how unattached I was going to be to my own shit if I didn't run for the can - I crapped myself right then and there. Oh vey.
Today I can laugh about it. Yesterday I couldn't. It's rather humiliating to crap yourself in public. A mile away from the bathroom. Eventually I got cleaned up with a little help from her, dearest one and Walmart. I'll spare you the details.
Tomorrow I will call my AA friend and ask her if she thinks I'm as attached to my shit as she is to hers and we will laugh. I wonder if that old man at the library has let go of his own issues a time or two. If that's what has to happen in order to handle life with grace and an invisible bow.
Let's just say it's a bit of a bitch to walk with a flourish when you're attached to your shit.