From time to time I need to be checked. Hard checked. That time came as I waited impatiently in the line at Starbucks. Already annoyed that the kids in the place outnumbered the adults , I longed for the days when Starbucks was not the province of young children. Ahead of me, a guy in a baggy suit waited with his kid. Paired with the suit, which was only mildly offensive for its ill-fit, was a pair of navy sneakers. Not dressy sneakers either – plain running sneakers. They had no place next to that suit. They had no place next to any suit. I almost took a picture for a post of shame.
After getting my coffee and settling into a couch, I watched the man pick up his drink. He walked with a limp, and he did his best to keep up with his son, and I instantly felt shame at what I had thought. He was wearing sneakers because he had to – and I had judged him and thought less of him for his choices before I thought of an explanation other than bad taste. And even if was bad taste, it was his choice. Who the fuck was I to think anything of it? It was a sudden and jarring smackdown of my silliness, reminding me that you never really know what’s going on with other people, even if it seems obvious and apparent. More importantly, it reminded me to ask – about others, about their stories, about their hurt and pain.
It was disappointing. I was disappointed in myself. I’m usually better than this. Not always. But usually.
I’ll try for always from now on.
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