On last week's drive down from St. Louis to West Plains, I stopped at the Panera Bread Company in Rolla for lunch. Panera is the leisure food stop when I'm not in a hurry, when I haven't left late or squandered all my travel time shopping my way between the two towns. It's a reward for good behavior, for keeping focused on the purpose of my trips to West Plains, the dismantling of the past 30 years of my life for a new life in St. Louis.
When I'm not on my best behavior, when I have trouble getting out the door, or when I allow a short stop to stretch my legs to turn into an extended shopping expedition, I minimize my eating time by stopping at McDonalds for a large order of fries to go. This is not my normal eating habit. I don't eat at McDonalds. I haven't for years. I consider this new behavior to be the-naughty-little-girl-in-me food choice. I believe that I've fallen under the spell of a childish equation that goes like this, one stress from moving plus one stress from feeling rushed equals, I deserve fries to go.
The stress seems to get the better of me more often than I care to admit. It doesn't matter that I love my new life and don't miss 90% of my possessions still there in West Plains. It just turns out to be hard work letting go of boxes of items that at one time were important to my life. I can't seem to let go without touching each item and remembering a life once lived. I believe that I am extracting both the good and the bad memories, and then experiencing a little grief over each now-dead object that will soon be sold or given away.
During last week's trip to West Plains, I was more determined than melancholy about the work ahead. I got what was for me an early start and arrived at Panera's in time for the noon lunch crowd. It was extremely cold, and I had a momentary thought that a drive-thru lunch of fries might be the warmer choice, but there was no way to overlook the fact that I needed a potty stop.
I was feeling good about making the better choice and looking forward to relaxing with my sandwich until I sat down and got a good look at the pickle slice. The pickle was face down, and when I turned it over, I thought maybe a truck had run over it or maybe it had just been served several times before. I don't always eat the pickle so it shouldn't have made a difference, but it did.
What did this pickle say about the rest of the food I was eating, and about the employee who would serve such an awful pickle? Was it turned upside down by coincidence because the server wasn't paying attention, or on purpose, because the server was ashamed of serving this pickle and too gutless to throw it out? Both choices didn't sound good. I didn't want to think about what else the server had failed to see, or did see and thought was okay to serve me because it would be hidden in my sandwich.
If I didn't care about what I ate, why wasn't I speeding on to West Plains with a nice bag of greasy fries beside me instead of hiding a gross-looking pickle under my napkin?
I was thinking about getting up and complaining, but did I really want to be known as the-woman-who-complained-about-pickles-that-she-doesn't-even-eat? Wasn't I busy working on being the-woman-who-can-relax-and-enjoy-a-good-sandwich? And I don't usually complain. I like to keep a low profile in public situations. I prefer to sit quietly and watch what is going on around me. But complaining seemed to be winning over sitting and watching.
I was still giving this some careful thought when a man sat down at the table next to me. He opened up his laptop and this distracted me. Next, his wife joined him and her coat caught my attention. It was a fine-looking coat, a full-length blue wool coat. The texture from the material made the blue seem to shift between two different shades. Attached to the coat were brown and orange felt cutouts that drifted down the back and front. It was like an abstract painting that had come to life.
The woman got up to fill her cup, and as I watched her cross the room I thought the coat looked stunning on her. She was tall and thin, which made the coat look more dramatic. It was clearly a coat, but it reminded me of being wrapped in a comfortable favorite bathrobe. The coat was beautiful and made her look beautiful.
I was done with my sandwich by then and on impulse as I was leaving I leaned over and told the woman that her coat was beautiful. I wasn't sure how the couple would react, but both of them were pleased. She said that she had owned the coat for several years and was still surprised by how frequently she got complements. I told her that it had a timeless quality.
As I left, I felt happy that I had stopped to have a conversation about a coat. I thought how lucky that woman was to own such a beautiful coat, not that I would want to own it. I don't have the height or build for that style of coat. But it was a happy coat, and it made me feel good just to be able to look at it for a short time.
It wasn't till I got to my car that I realized that I had completely forgotten about the pickle. The positive trumped the negative. That sweet, timeless coat had beat out a sour, flat pickle.
How many of my possessions made me as happy as that coat? What did I own that added a timeless beauty, a timeless joy to my life? What did I own that added value to my life? What would I bring to St. Louis that would add to my happiness?
