I really didn't want to sit at that table. No choice. I need a plug for my lap top and that was the only one available. It's the designated "Handicapped" table, but everyone I know uses it all the time at my favorite coffee shop. I always figured that if anyone actually needed the table because of their physical disability, I'd vacate it in a heartbeat.
So, I'm sitting there cooling down from our first 90 plus degree day and this couple walks in. Well, not exactly. He, morbidly obese, was walking unassisted and she, heavy, but nowhere near his weight was moving with a walker. They both edged toward me and naturally I offered to move. There's the dilemma. Am I moving because I want to, have to, or because I need to? We all agreed there was room for everyone and ended up sharing the table for about half an hour.
To say that this pair was right out of Gary Larson's "The Far Side" would be an understatement. But I'm not trying to denigrate them, just trying to capture the accuracy of the scene. Drinking their Cafe Freddos (a mocha milkshake) they shared courteous, casual conversation with me. After a while it became clear to me that they had a lovely co-dependent relationship. I mean that in a positive way. I mean it like there is someone for everyone...maybe.
Eventually they decided to make Ben and Jerry's their next stop but not before the male in the equation took out a Bible and started copying a verse from Matthew onto a yellow legal tablet. His handwriting was small and meticulous.
I've always managed to attract people who are often the direct opposite of myself. From the squirmy social dance days of Jr. High school to the people who friends thought might be a good match when I was single. (I never knew 20 minutes could be so long) The truth is, if you center yourself during these awfully uncomfortable situations you can really learn a lot about yourself.
Today I learned that I should probably stay away from designated tables.
I'm sitting there in a hospital gown, waiting for my doctor to complete my yearly physical. This is when I look at everything on the walls, read the medical posters, the instructions on any equipment in the room, look in every corner and behind every chair. I study the paper on the examination table, laugh out loud at the picture of a smiling child holding a bouquet of broccoli, and the note the placement of the computer in the room. Finally, wondering if the gown I'm wearing is on correctly, I focus on myself. At this point in my life I'm fairly comfortable in a doctor's office. But it always seems to take so long when waiting for the doc to enter. So I fidget. Then I begin a tour of myself. Scars are tattoos. I look at the one on my knee and see myself at 12. Whittling a piece of wood with my Boy Scout jack knife. The blade slips and I cut a crescent slash through my jeans and into my flesh for life. 50 years later ...

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