Yesterday was a comedy of errors, Larry David like: I'm on BART trying to meditate, trying not to think about my dad, who is being impossibly stubborn about some things. I'm doing this meditation and I'm calming down when I hear an angry voice snapping "Someone is taking two seats!"
I opened my eyes to see who this incosiderate soul was. It was me. Yeah, it was me, because my purse was on the seat and taking two inches of the seat.
"Can you move your purse?" The man snapped at me. I moved the purse. He gave my purse like it was made of fire, plus I was covered with bees.
I felt incredibly irritated. First off, the guy ruined my meditation. He ruined my spirutual mojo I was trying to create. Second, the purse was taking TWO INCHES of the seat. Two freaking inches. It wasn't that bad. Third there were plenty of seats for this man to pick. He didn't have to pick the one near me. No one told him hey you have to sit next to this girl with her big ass purse. Him overreacting was his fault, not mine.
I said to him "I'm sorry it was in the way." I wanted credit for not adding "you're a big old baby with first world problems."
He grunted a reply that I couldn't make out. I closed my eyes. I couldn't get back in the groove of the meditation, to feel peace, om.
I felt irritated. Just plain out irritated. I have to deal with inconsiderate people all the time on BART. I wrote a Perspective but it didn't flow about the fact that people put their stupid suitcases on the seats and people have to stand during rush hour. What I hate is the fact they sometimes put them right near the doors which is reserved for Seniors and people with disabilities. It's the time you want to be like Uncle Ed in All New People when someone tries to sneak in more than ten items in the express lane and you want to say to them nice as pie, "Can you read?"
Grumpy George got off at Embarcadero. No doubt he was off to yell at the few Occupy San Franciscans that are left over there. I wished hm well. I got off at Montgomery. I had to be at work at three forty five, but was starving. I looked for the taco truck where I can get a cheap five dollar burrito. No taco truck. I looked around. Taco truck, where are you? I need you taco truck! I took a deep breath, then went to the Irish Times Bar, where they had food during happy hour.
I ordered sliders and a Shirley Temple. Started to revise and edit essays. I ate and drank, feeling better. Joni Rodgers in her ebook First You Write said that writing is like scuplting. You get the clay and then you make something out of it, slowly but surely. You have to throw extra clay out, then keep on going. That's how I felt as I wrote, I was scuplting. Finally, I was finished for the day. Still had to go to work. I decided to use the bathroom before I left.
I went in, peed, then I tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge. I looked up. Oh, silly me. The latch is still on. moved the latch. It wouldn't budge. What the hell? I tried again. And again. And again. The door stayed shut. Oh God. Sweat was going down my neck. I took out my phone. What I do is look up the Irish Times number on safari, then call them and say hey, I'm locked in this bathroom, let me out. But I wasn't going to sound worried or anything. I was going to be cool, calm collected. Like a cucumber. I pressed the safari app. It wouldn't boot up. I tried again. Nothing. It was stuck. Incredibly stuck. I tried my phone so I could call information. The signal wasn't picking up. Okay. I had to be at work in twenty-five minutes. I was not going to call and say I'm stuck in the bathroom at the Irish Times bar. I have some dignity.
I pounded at the door. "Hello! I'm stuck in here! The door won't move!" No answer. Fontella Bass was singing "Rescue Me." Fontella, you and me both, babe. I kicked the door. "Hey! Someone is in here! I need to get out!" Silence. Then I heard someone trying to open the door. "I think someone is in there and she can't get out!" she yelled. Whew! Someone noticed. I didn't have to be like Earl in Pickles when locked in the bathroom he started working on his last will and testament on toilet paper.
"Push the door!" The other voice said.
I pushed. "It won't budge!" I yelled. Silence. I wanted to cry. Really? I mean, I don't have enough going on in my life and now I'm going to be trapped in a bathroom? Can my life get any weirder?
"Stand back!" I heard another voice say. I did. In seconds, the door was opened. "It was stuck," he said. "Thank you thank you thank you!" I said to him, ready to kiss his feet. If I had more cash on me, I would've bought him a drink. But I didn't want to be late.
Everyone looked at me as if I was the stupidest person in the world because I didn't know how to open a door. I thought about saying to all of them "Shut it," but decided that would be hostile. Instead I left the Irish Times and ran down the street.
When I realized I wasn't going to be late, I slowed down, thinking about being stuck. There are times you are truly truly stuck and you need to ask for help. It might come one day late, but help usually comes. Or you can choose to be stuck. You don't know how else to behave so you stay stuck. And odds are, it most likely will kill you. I wanted to live. Like Cyndi Lauper, I want to be that girl who walks in the sun. I walked on, feeling free, not feeling stuck at all.
Causes Jennifer Gibbons Supports
Gilda's Club, Greenpeace, Rosie's Broadway Kids,Westwind Foster Family Agency, Amber Brown Fund, Linda Duncan Fund for Contra Costa Libraries