My horoscope told me that I need to spend less time thinking about myself and my problems and more time focusing on compassion to others. In other words, get out of the waist deep, urine-filled, public pool of woe-is-me that I had been standing in. Emotionally speaking, that is. I took this instruction so seriously that I decided to try and resume some long-abandoned meditation practices to aide me in the effort.
Deep breathing is, after all, what gets me through meetings with a boss that is always concerned about her hair being flat in back. It IS always flat in back—no matter the constant fluffing—but she misses the larger issue which is perpetual lipstick on the teeth. I have to take a deep breath to loosen the chest-tightening response I have just been thinking about it.
So yeah, why not expand those deep breaths to the practice of mindfulness; to Zen focus on gratitude and on channeling compassion to the suffering. And I totally want to be one of those people. Centered. Calm. That finds the good in every bad situation and don’t waste a minute worrying about what could go wrong when things are going well.
My problem with previous efforts at meditation is that I lack focus. My mind wanders. I’ve been told that is just fine and that I should acknowledge the thought and move on. Move back to center. So, deep breath in, slow breath out and away we go.
Suffering of others. Real suffering. Not the half-assed, Gen-X-hangover suffering that I willingly flail through everyday. Who am I? Am I making a difference in the world? Could I have been a Grammy-winning country singer if I had not given up guitar lessons in high school? Would I have just developed a bourbon/cocaine problem if I had continued with guitar? B.S. Move on. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I mean how about the people I work with? Homeless, abused, marginalized and forced to jump through ridiculous hoops to access basics such as food, housing and health care. This is why my boss’ hair should not come up in meetings. I mean, really, can you take anyone seriously who comes clicking through a shelter--past homeless children--in designer heels, fluffing her hair the entire way?
Wait, no. Now I’m judging. She deserves compassion too. And her preoccupation with her hair is likely the manifestation of some sort of suffering. Move on. Deep breath in. Breathe out.
Butt crack boils. This isn’t completely random. I think of my boss working red lipstick over a cold sore and it reminds me of butt crack boils. Now that is some shit. I once knew a guy that got wicked boils in his butt crack due to working on a loading dock and sitting in the hot, sweaty, forklift seat all day. No air. No circulation. He said it was really painful and he’d just have to suffer through sitting on the oozing pustules until they healed. Ick. Breathe in. Breathe out.
But at least he had a job, right? And money with which to buy boil salve. Back to the homeless. Real suffering. Homeless babies. Homeless babies with boils. Homeless babies with boils without salve. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Oh, but what about that guy I passed in the sandwich-board, hawking some furniture store? He was taking a deep drag off a cigarette in one hand while he waved to passing cars with the other, beckoning them to stop and buy cheap, beige sofas. No money down. The sign didn’t say beige, but the store window was an oatmeal horizon without end. His face was so red and sweaty under the sun—in horrifying contrast to the store window--it looked as though his skin would come to a boil at any moment. He was at least fifty. Boiling like a lobster. Pushing bad home furnishings. Talk about suffering. Breathe in. Breathe out.
He had a job too, but a shitty job and just down the street was a woman in the same profession. She also wore an ad of some sort, but she wasn’t waving. She was busy with a bag of potato chips. She looked far less impacted by the heat and much more worked up by efforts to tear the bag open. Idling at the stop light, I observed her try and rip it with her teeth. That sucks. Standing outside, wanting nothing more than to eat your chips in peace, while some a-hole stares with pity. Move on. Deep breath. In and out.
But I get stuck on the chips. They were no ordinary chips. That lady had been wrestling with Lays Barbeque Potato Chips. Deep breath in. Shudder.
Carlos was his name and he had a cute smirk of a smile. We went out once and he came home with me. It was a fun night. He came over the next day--smirking--wanting to stay over again. And he brought me a gift: chips. “In case you’re hungry,” he said.
I just stared. What dickweed brings a girl chips? Lays Barbeque Potato chips, no less, which I don’t even like. Worse still, it wasn't even a party size bag of chips that we could share later, or that I could offer to guests once I kicked his ass out. No, it was an individual serving pack. Of chips. A mini-bite-size summation of my love life. When I had one.
And now I’m pining for stupid chip-boy. Even babies with boils find that sad.
Deep breaths turn into sighs. I’m back--in a matter of five minutes--standing in the pee pool. Hoping someone out there’s breathing me some compassion.
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