The Lunch Hour

A lunch hour has always been a sacred part of my workday, not so much about the food as the welcome escape. But as I learned the other day, a lot can happen in 60 minutes. Just last week as I glanced at my watch in the home office, I eagerly finished my lunch hour to-do list and was quickly out the door. First stop? The post office to ship a package. As I rushed in the front door and grabbed a number for the waiting line, I was instantly besieged by a crazy-eyed, wild-haired gentlemen – “Don’t you agree President Bush was a failure?! Aren’t you mad about the economy? Ya know, I thought he should have resigned years ago . . .” Helpless, I glanced around at my fellow line waiters who seemed relieved that I had distracted Wild Man away from them while still offering me sympathetic glances. One woman simply shook her head and frowned slightly at my misfortune – I was the new sacrificial lamb. Thinking quickly, I pulled my trusty BlackBerry out of my pocket and began talking into it, which made no sense because it had not rung and I had not dialed it. Wild Man didn’t seem to notice as I continued to talk to no one but myself as I tried to look as preoccupied as possible while edging away to safety. Of course, when my BlackBerry actually did ring (oh, what timing), Wild Man was instantly alert – “How did your phone ring like that when you were already talking to someone?! Further proof that they’re watching us, man!!! Our privacy rights are being trampled and you don’t care!!!” Half laughing, half crying I answered the call – from my wife, Jackie – and simply held the phone in the air so she could hear Wild Man’s rant (I felt the need for a witness). After quickly finishing up my call with Jackie, I did something I am not proud of, something so vile, it probably makes me a terrible human being . . . but at this point it was sink or swim. As an elderly gentleman innocently strolled in and took a number, I quickly pointed him out to Wild Man and said, “See that guy that just walked in? He LOVES President Bush.” Wild Man was livid and instantly pounced on his new, terrified victim, giving him an earful as I quickly dropped off my package at the counter and raced out the door. (C’mon, work with me here, it was for the greater good!) As I jumped in my truck and reflected on the fact that it’s beginning to seem like it is the post office customers who are going postal, I drove out of the parking lot and headed for my next lunch hour destination . . .

Aubrey’s daycare. It’s a great place – an old historic mansion with rooms so cozy that I find myself lingering with Aubrey each morning, checking out the latest toys and drooling over the smell of the pancake breakfasts. Today, however, I was simply stopping by to pay the monthly bill. Still shaken from my postal experience, I was relieved to see the smiling, familiar faces of the ladies behind the front desk. “Hi, Jeff, are you here for Aubrey,” said Anne, looking suddenly stunned as I leaned over the counter toward her. “Oh, no, just here to pay the bill.” Soon, Jan, another worker at the school (and also a neighbor), was standing by Anne, looking curiously at me, but they both began laughing at my every word. “Hey, don’t tell Aubrey I was here or she’ll really let me have it tonight.” The snickering steadily increased. “Wouldn’t want her to give me a timeout or anything.” They continued to laugh in a disproportionate amount to the humor I was delivering. But who am I to judge? I was clearly making their day, a ray of sunshine in a probably otherwise dismal afternoon. I am the man, I thought as I walked out the door – spreading laughter, spreading joy – that’s my mission today. I jumped back in my truck and, still feeling as if something wasn’t just quite right, I made the mistake of glancing in my rearview mirror and, as my stomach sank, I realized they had been laughing AT me, not WITH me. Now, I don’t want to gross you out, but let’s just say that there was something the color green protruding so prominently from my right nostril that I literally screamed when I saw it. Obviously, I had received an unhealthy (and well-deserved) dose of karma from my devious actions at the post office. Now feeling sick and disoriented, I pulled myself together as best I could and headed for my last stop . . .

Whole Foods. They have the world’s best organic salad bar, not to mention delectable vegetarian chili. But after what I had just experienced, my appetite had completely disappeared. I simply wanted to pick up a gallon of milk. Glancing through the refrigerator case, I selected one with an “Organic Valley” label when suddenly an older woman with a German accent grabbed my arm. Still gun shy from the Wild Man post office incident, I quickly pulled away but Milk Lady followed me. “You know, my son works for Organic Farms in upstate New York.” After chatting with her for a few moments, I learned the great measures that her son – an independent dairy farmer – takes to ensure we all drink healthy milk. Milk Lady was very charming and was clearly just looking for someone to talk to (and since she wasn’t laughing at me, I also figured that my nose was clean). As we stood together in the check out line, she said, “Now some people have problems with the price of the milk, but you seem like you really care about your family. At it’s a small price to pay for your good health.” The price? Suddenly, the checker, with cool dreadlocks and a Whole Foods bandana, pulled the milk carton out of my hands and marveled, “Dude, you do know this is an eight dollar carton of milk.” Come again? “Yeah, we sure don’t sell many of those . . . ” I carefully weighed my options. Of course I love my family and care about my health, but c’mon, eight dollars for a small portion of milk?! Just as I was trying to sneak past Milk Lady to swap my selection, she glanced up and said, “Oh, are you going back for another carton? I will hold your place in line – you are a good man.” Suddenly, eight dollars seemed much more reasonable than 16 dollars, so I made an excuse that I was just going to grab a magazine behind her. “Do you want Women’s Health or Female Medicine Today?” As I finally made my way home, I realized a lot of (really weird) things can happen during the course of something as seemingly insignificant as a lunch hour. The eight-dollar gallon of milk and February issue of Women’s Health sitting in the grocery bag on my back seat were proof of that troubling revelation.

Thanks for reading. And until next time, pick up the pace and run your own race.

- Jeff