By Michele DeLuca
CNHI
NORTH TONAWANDA —
The man walked up to me in the parking lot of the supermarket. I had just come from work, and I was trying to run in quickly and get some supplies for a late dinner.
"Hello," I said. “How are you?” figuring that with his purposeful stride toward me we must know each other. As he got closer I saw we did not.
He walked over and stood in front of me. “You looked worried,” he said.
What? Me? I told him I surely was not. But he persisted.
“You worry more than other people don’t you?”
Oh, boy, I said to myself. I’ve crossed paths with a parking lot physic or some sort of guru wanna-be. I sighed and said, patiently, “Everybody worries.”
He shook his head. “I'm not talking about everyone. I’m talking about you.”
I was aggravated, but also intrigued. Crazy man? Parking lot stalker? His confidence aggravated me.
“I really have to go,” I said.
He moved closer and said, “And you are always in a hurry. Your mother always made you hurry when you were a child, didn't she,” he said.
It was late. I was tired. And in a hurry. I sighed but before I could answer he moved closer.
“Can I show you a way to get rid of all that worry?”
I puffed myself up in an effort to get him to back away. Then I smiled, gritting my teeth just a little and imaging all the serial killers who begin their victim search in such a manner.
“Look, I’m a student of human potential. I’ve been researching things like meditation and the benefits of relaxation techniques most of my adult life ... now I really have to go.”
He was unimpressed. “Wait. Just give me one more minute. Let me show you how to relax.”
He started to breath, waving his arms, forming a shape about his belly like a big egg with his hands and taking a deep breath.
It was all too much for me. I thanked him for his advice, because, yes, I am that polite. And, yes, that is just the kind of victim serial killers are looking for — polite ones. And then I bid him goodnight and entered the store, racing through my shopping like a game show contestant.
But, by the time I got home, I was muttering to myself. Darn it, the crazy old man was right. I had been worrying alot lately. About a hundred different things. And I had been speeding through my life, quickly irked at any and all roadblocks, despite my awareness that I needed to slow down and calm down.
I thought I was making headway on my racetrack, but I was not. And some irritating old man in the supermarket had to tell me so.
It’s like I keep trying to put a governor on my personal speedometer and I can’t get it to stick.
That old guy with the guru complex annoyed me in the parking lot. But, even if he was crazy, he was right. I was worried. Alot. About many things I could do absolutely nothing about. And I was hurried. Alot.
Me, who tries to makes a practice of slowing down and enjoying the moment. Me who many months ago made a pronouncement that I would no longer let my brain yammer at me from the moment my feet hit the floor in the morning.
I had slipped back down the slope. My brain had been revving like a Chevy engine with the gas pedal pressed down with a brick. That can't be good for my motor or my parts.
So, to my parking lot friend. Thank you. I'm sorry I was so impatient. Perhaps you weren’t a serial killer. Perhaps our brief meeting was a little message from somewhere higher up, even if you didn’t mean it to be.
I really was in a hurry. Today, not so much. Tomorrow, maybe less.
I’m a slow learner but I’m working hard to get this right. I’m looking forward to a good, long, life. Why would I want to rush through it?
