If you’re super disappointed that this isn’t my second post on The Happiness Project, I apologize. But the second chapter is on marriage, so it’s taken a back seat. Obviously.
For those of you who are now nodding with understanding, let me take this moment to pimp out my friend Jenna McCarthy‘s upcoming release, If It Was Easy They’d Call the Whole Damn Thing a Honeymoon. Order it already. She’s that funny. And the cover? Please.
Anyway.
Today, I ended up at Barnes & Noble for an hour of solace. I found a comfy chair in the back and settled in with my grande coffee with two pumps of white mocha and soy milk (hot because it’s effing freezing in there) and the magazine Where Women Create because I had a feeling that it was going to change my world.
And it would have. Were it not for Mike.
So, this older gentleman saunters over to the comfy seating area. I ascertained fairly quickly that he was hard of hearing. Because he shouted, “HELLO THERE!” so loudly that his voice is echoing off the Grand Canyon right about now.
Let me insert here that I’ve seen this man all over town. I see him at Sprouts and B&N most often, and he’s always super friendly to everyone. Plus, he was wearing a striped button-down shirt with a plaid jacket over top, so clearly he’s in some way related to at least two of my children.
Given the likelihood that he’s a relative combined with my frequent sightings of him, I wondered, What does this mean?
I had nary a moment to ponder that before he asked (loudly), “You want to know what I think is wrong with the medical system today?”
Ohmigod, do I have a sign on me somewhere? That says Therapist Is In? Like Lucy in Charlie Brown?
“Actually, it’s three things,” he continued.
Super. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse.
“Several years ago, my doctor told me I needed to have my prostrate removed.”
Yes, he said prostrate. I edit in all situations, but in this one I rightfully (I think) grabbed my left index finger—which had instinctively begun to raise itself as a precursor to my informing him that he needed to drop the second “r”—with my right hand because, really, it was only going to make things worse.
“I did nothing,” he continued. “But then a year later, another doctor told me I needed to have my prostrate removed.”
“Of course he did,” I responded.
“WHAT?” he shouted, as he cupped his ear and leaned in.
Great.
“OF COURSE HE DID!” I shouted back.
At this point, I spied the head of the store manager peeking around the corner of the Health section to see what all the shouting was about. Upon seeing my companion, however, he simply rolled his eyes and went back to his work. Clearly, I was neither the first nor, probably, the last.
“I’m Mike,” he said.
“Hi Mike. I’m Elizabeth,” I answered.
“WHAT?”
“E-LI-ZA-BETH!” I responded.
“So, Lisbon, what do you do?” shouted Mike.
I was so very close to saying, “I’m an EMT and my pager just went off” because, really, it could be true and he couldn’t hear it anyway.
But instead, I thought, Maybe I’m the only person Mike is going to run into today who will try to be nice. Maybe everyone else will ignore him or flat-out tell him to go away. I really don’t have to be anywhere, and this magazine isn’t going anywhere. Also, if he turns out to be a real whack job, he thinks my name is Lisbon, so I’m in no real danger.
I closed my magazine, shifted my weight so as to be more clearly attentive, and responded.
“WELL, MIKE, I’M A WRITER.”
“OH! A WRITER! WHAT’S YOUR LAST NAME?”
“LYONS.”
No, I don’t know why.
“LISBON LYONS THE WRITER. THAT’S JUST BEAUTIFUL.”
And with that, he opened Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill (you can’t make this shit up, people) and started reading. So I returned to reading my magazine.
Four minutes later, he closed his book, got up, and said, “Lisbon, I wish you a beautiful day.”
And I said, “Mike, I wish you a beautiful day as well.”
And he said, “WHAT?”
And I said, “HAVE A GREAT DAY!”
And that was that.
It was the weirdest, most bizarre, kindest moment I’ve experienced in a month.
Now go order Jenna’s book already.
*Photo courtesy of SweetOnVeg
