Starting a new routine after a move, or at a new job, is a little like dating I’ve come to realize. The similarity with dating after a move is that everything is a struggle – where is this place located, what’s the shortest trip path, will she pick up the check if I pull the “I forgot my wallet” bit. With a new job, it’s the “how much do I reveal about myself” dilemma. I have always made it a personal rule never to divulge my criminal past, especially the duration of the incarceration, until after the first month. You don’t want to scare everyone off before they eventually find you on the Internet for chronic mattress tag removal crimes against humanity. That day of discovery is always awkward as well as a “slippery slope” for the Human Resources folks, sort of a ”Who was in charge of the background check on this guy?” kind of moment.
I’ve had my share of homecoming awkwardness. High school reunions are universally awkward. The “I wonder if that person remembers me” question always presents itself as well as the “I hope that person doesn’t remember what I did or said to them way back when” thought. My first two reunions actually went rather well. I think the real awkwardness came from the faces of my fellow classmates at the second reunion when they saw me with the same girl on my arm as I had with me when we celebrated surviving our first 10 years out of high school. I could almost hear the prayers of their collective minds for my poor wife!! Fortunately she, too, hates change to a great degree and keeps me around.
The high school reunion also brings with it another homecoming stress – returning to the town where you were forced out by the locals under the cover of darkness. Their ogling was kept to a minimum as much as I can remember. However, while I was there I took a trip to one of the grocery stores. My anxiety was at a personal high as I entered the automatic doors of the state-of-the-art grocery store. I guess my fear stems from being recognized and not being able to reciprocate with the identification of that person.
Stranger: “Well lookie here!! What are you doing hanging around the laxative aisle?”
Ken: “Oh hey….Dude!!! How’s it going? You doin’ alright? How’s your hernia?
Stranger: “My what? My diabetes?”
Ken: “Yeah!! I mean your diabetes!! Are you keeping your blood sugar in check like a good boy?? (I quickly notice a missing limb and wished I could retract my latest health accountability inquiry).
Stranger: “I never had diabetes. What are you talking about?!”
Ken: “Well…I……er…..your…” (I half-heartedly pointed at his missing ankle and, again, wished I hadn’t done so)
Stranger: “That was from the wood chipper!! You don’t remember pulling me out of that thing after I went in after YOUR baseball?”
Ken: “Of course!!! Who do you think I am, some kind of callous ogre from your past??!!!”
Stranger: “All right then, catch ya later Mike.”
Ken: “Take care…er..Hommes!!”
My wife’s primary concern at the reunion was running into my old girlfriend(s). To be quite honest, I was a little anxious about that possibility as well. What if I couldn’t remember their names too and the stories behind their various missing limbs?
I think my tendency toward being a “pleaser” makes these encounters almost invariably disastrous. No one has the bullet proof memory that they wish they could have. In addition, I think I truly want people to remember me (for the goods things I did, not for the things I was acquitted). Because of this, I truly want to remember others so they won’t feel like they didn’t touch the lives of others. This fear of a potential memory gap on both sides makes me very anxious.
I recently took some contract work, ironically at my previous place of employment. The potential for awkward encounters abounded with each new day. After some initial shock, I struck up several conversations with former co-workers. I discovered that I may have done a better job than I remember with respect to the treatment of others. Many had kind words for me about the days when I used to roam the halls aimlessly looking for the way back to my office. I have to admit it was actually kind of entertaining watching the faces of others as I saw them innocently walking down the hallway from a distance. Like a safari hunter waiting for the prey to fall into the tiger trap, I smirked and waited. Bingo!! Eye contact!! Now it was time to track their reaction:
(1) Instant darting of the eyes back to, and forever fixed on, the contemporary carpet pattern that hypnotizes you as you walk; or,
(2) Repeated glancing between me and the carpet as you can almost see the gray matter overheating in panic as their memory database is searched frantically; or,
(3) The occasional “Hey Ken!”; or,
(4) Oblivion followed by a discreet whisper into the lapel notifying Security of the obvious breach in the 11th floor door panel ID devices.
The fact is we are part of a complex, interrelated web of encounters and relationships. Dudes hate thinking about relationships because: they take time; they require us to listen; they require us to care; and, they flourish when we ingest them. I think my reluctance to invest in relationships has subsided since I entered my 40’s (not my real age). Having lost a couple of “runnin’ buddies” over the past few years, I’ve become keenly aware that this thing called life can change in an instant. Perhaps the reality of knowing that unsaid words can have a haunting effect on us when we look back helps me speak up and literally touch those around me now.
Fear can have a long-lasting and damaging impact with respect to touching the lives of others. The fear of being rejected or misunderstood has limited much of what I have said to others in the past. This past Lenten season I was struggling with what I should give up in honor of my Savior. Coffee seemed almost an insult and physically impossible. The giving up of bad language had been attempted two years in a row while working for a construction company – definitely impossible. As I sat in the pew on Ash Wednesday, my procrastination had reached an epic level. I had less than 2 minutes before I was to write it down, put it in the offering plate to be burned and the ashes returned to be pasted on my forehead. No problem (QUICK – PRAY!!!!!). As I closed my eyes, I noticed an odd sense of relief for no reason whatsoever. It was like I already had the answer but couldn’t get it off the tip of my tongue. The offering plate was nearing with every tick of the grandfather clock that was so inappropriately positioned next to me in the sanctuary. I calmly took the pen out of the pocket protector and wrote the word “Fear” on my paper to be burned and later etched on my forehead in the shap of a cross for others to point at.
It seemed initially like a give up attempt to avoid any and all suffering. However, what was to follow in my life was nothing short of an immediate challenge on numerous fronts. Within days I encountered situations where my first instinct was to flee in sheer panic, but my heart was told me to wait – very strange and calming at the same time. It was truly an opportunity to rest and to trust that where I was at that exact moment and who I was in the company of was precisely where I needed to be. It was very Zen like, if only I knew what that meant. No. I’m positive it was Zen like.
Throughout the Lenten season, I had encounter after encounter where I could feel that something else was at work. Fighting the urge to leave potentially uncomfortable situations became easier. Doing so gave me a perspective that I’ve never had before - where I realized that everything matters. Everything does matter. Every person you meet matters because every person has a story. Finding someone to listen to that story these days is much harder it seems.
I learned a lot from my 4’10”, Irish immigrant mother. She knew the name of every janitor wherever she worked. She was fearless and would talk to anyone. She was interested in the stories of others and loved to share hers with anyone who would sit still long enough to listen. The Irish have superhuman jaws and vocal chords. They also have a culture known for their stories and stories told through music.
Stories work best when there’s an audience. Try being someone’s audience this week and see if you’re able to fight the urge to flee. Years from now you might find out what that meant for others. In an eternity from now, you will know what it meant to others, especially strangers.
Fear not,
-- The Guy with the Distracted Mind
