Out of the Blue
Not milking the moment can leave you thirsty
It was one of those unexpected, remarkable days, where everyday errands can feel extraordinary. The idea of getting up over an hour earlier to cover class for a colleague had me sleeping a little less soundly the night before. The class was on content I don’t teach very often, and I had been putting extra pressure on myself to bring my best.
The morning was bright, in more ways than one. There was a positive energy in the studio. Everyone was happy to be there and ready to engage. It reminded me that I was ready too and all was well. Also, the day was bright — literally: crisp air, blue skies, and lots of sunshine.
After class, I soaked it all up as I hoofed uptown. I was riding a combination of elation and relief at the students’ response to class when I realized that there was going to be little to eat if I didn’t swing by the grocery store. Venturing an extra block east, I resumed my pilgrimage north and entered the D’Agostino’s on Third Avenue and 35th street.
Hardly anyone was in the store, but instead of feeling desolate and depressing, it felt friendly and relaxed. People were at ease, nodding, smiling. It may sound odd to say, but in this world of increasing self-isolation, disconnect and engrossment in our phones, it is delightful to enter a space where people notice you are there, instead of trying to pretend you aren’t. And they seem to be in good spirits.
There was only one person ahead of me in the queue. The cashier and customer looked my way when I stepped into line, and I smiled back. No furrowed brow or impatient glare. No frustration that there was only one register open. I didn’t have many items and neither did the gentleman in front of me. All was well.
The gentleman making his purchase, who may have been 10-15 years my senior (who can tell anymore?), said to no one in particular (and to both of us by default), “This is probably the only store left that sells Tomato Rice soup.” The cashier was ringing up the cans of Campbells’ and bagging them as he spoke.
A silent moment went by. I decided to break it.
“Childhood?”
“Yes. That’s the only one [variety of Campbell’s soup] I still eat.”
I noticed he purchased a brand of non-dairy yogurt I often buy and don’t often see in regular grocery stores. Even though the store clearly carried the brand, I was still surprised to see it among his groceries.
“I buy that brand of yogurt, too. It’s good.”
“Yeah,” he responded, somewhat less enthusiastically than he did about the soup. “I get that because I can’t do dairy anymore.”
“I can’t do dairy either… except butter seems to be ok.”
“Yeah, for me too, for some reason. It’s funny about getting old.”
Silence again. Only this time the silence was from me.
In my brain, I was having all these thoughts at once.
“I’ve been lactose intolerant my whole life. So, it isn’t age-related for me.”
“Don’t say that. He’s not going to care about that.”
“I don’t want to contradict him. It isn’t important, really. And we’re having such a nice exchange. Why throw a wrench in it with information that doesn’t even matter?”
In the seconds it took me to have those thoughts, the cashier finished bagging his groceries, he picked them up and was turning to leave.
I’d let the silence go for too long and the moment to respond to his comment had passed. If it had been a tennis game, the equivalent would have been me suddenly standing stock still in the middle of a volley. He realized he was out there by himself. The awkward moment was almost imperceptible. Almost.
Great conversations have a rhythm. In music, that final note that ends the phrase is often referred to as the button. Buttons are satisfying. Sure, we all smiled and said goodbye just as congenially as when we started our chat, but I felt the loss of that moment together completing our conversation. I felt the gaping moment when I didn’t respond to his openness. I missed our button.
I mulled this over as I made my way uptown. What had happened?? Where did I go in that moment, anyway? Step by step, it dawned on me that I’d missed our moment of connection because I got caught up in facts and accuracy. My focus on getting those correct made me lose sight of the connection with a person. I left his comment about getting old to hang out there, without a response. Imagine, calling yourself old and the other person says nothing.
Nothing.
If I had to do it over?
I’d laugh and nod and say, “Yeah, it is funny.” Because it is.
There are things, funny or otherwise, about getting older for everyone. Even if it isn’t lactose intolerance. Even if you don’t see yourself as old. Young or not, we are all, still, getting older.
Close enough.
If I’d gotten out of my head sooner and joined him out there in that moment of vulnerability, we’d have all three of us, enjoyed another shared moment of connection before parting ways and possibly not ever seeing each other again.
That would have been lovely.
The nourishment we get from being connected is so very essential to life. To our survival. Being able to enjoy a moment of bonding with someone over something “close enough” takes our allowing it to happen. For me, that morning, it was letting go of trying to get all the facts in line in a situation where, in the grand scheme of things, the facts were actually just fodder. They were just the means to the end—which was the act of connecting through conversation.
Close enough.
Next time, I’ll remind myself to look and listen. After all, connection only takes being close enough.