Little Things
Several months ago, a leading cell phone manufacturer released a wildly popular commercial designed to highlight the privacy features offered by its newly-minted phones and to distinguish them from those of its competitors. It was as funny as it was far-fetched. The spot opens with a man announcing to his fellow travelers on a crowded bus that he’d “spent his day browsing 8 websites for a divorce attorney.” Then, in quick succession: a woman in a movie theater tells a stranger sitting next to her the password she uses to "login for everything;" two co-workers openly discuss their affinity for each other and their disdain for a colleague in an adjacent cubicle; a woman in a busy upscale restaurant shares with her companion (and their server) the date and time she “purchased prenatal vitamins and 4 pregnancy tests;” a man in a public restroom stall blurts out to all within earshot that he is “currently reading an article entitled, ‘10 Ways To Keep Sweaty Hands From Holding You Back’;” and a woman with a bullhorn in a bustling public square unabashedly shares her credit card number. It ends with a screen shot that reads simply: "Some things shouldn't be shared. Privacy matters.”
The thing is, if you walked as many “Air Bud-less” miles as I have over the past decade, you’d realize the underlying premise of the commercial isn’t that far-fetched at all. I'm amazed at some of the in-person and on-phone things I hear from fellow sidewalk travelers who seem completely oblivious or indifferent to the fact that they’re in a public space: husbands and wives (current and ex) embroiled in bitter arguments, whose only apparent purpose is to prove that one or the other is “right”; parents yelling at kids about their latest act of disrespect, disobedience, or defiance; employers berating subordinates over their latest screw-up, almost as if it was intentional; and teenagers cattily gossiping over the day’s drama at school. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all negative. There are plenty of times the too-loud talk is celebratory. News of: the birth of a child, an award or achievement, acquisitions of new “toys” and houses, a good time spent the night before, the details of an upcoming or just-taken vacation, or an unexpected invitation to a must-be-seen-at event. None of it, of course, is any of my business. And so, I walk on, offering only an occasional smile or a simple nod - seldom giving any of it a second thought.
It’s not that there haven’t been times I wanted to stop – to offer a word of comfort, encouragement, hope, or peace. I have. But, never more than several months ago, as I approached a young man half my age in a backwards baseball cap out walking his black lab early one Saturday morning. Even though he was 15 steps ahead, I could overhear his conversation as clearly as if I, rather than what obviously was a friend, was on the other end of the line. I was struck by the sound of relief bordering on enthusiasm with which the man was sharing the news that his wife or live-in girlfriend had “finally moved out” the night before and how “good it was” to wake up in the morning “without the weight of her (of them) and their struggles” bearing down on him. He was rejoicing in what it felt like to be “free” – at last – to “do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it” and already talking, with an almost childlike sense of eagerness and expectation about what he planned to do with his newfound freedom. I wanted to let him know it wouldn’t be that easy. That a heart doesn’t work that way – at least not one that has truly loved.
I wanted to tell him it would be the little things he’d miss: Drawing each other close in the morning after a restless night’s sleep: the feeling of her hand in his when he needs reminding he’s not alone; the way their bodies fit together; a soft caress from knowing fingers; her unexpected mid-day call, a familiar voice, and the reassurance that comes from simply knowing he’s being thought of; a comforting embrace in the midst of a bad dream or storm; the rhythm of her breathing when she’s sound asleep; the lingering scent of her hair; the small of her back; whispered “good night’s” at the end of a day that’s been anything but; the first smile of the morning; cranking up a favorite song on the radio; a spontaneous dance in right front seat; the feeling of her head pressed against his chest - her playfulness. For a moment, I even let myself believe it was why I was there, that my overhearing, our paths crossing, was no accident, that I was meant to save him (and her) from themselves, from their short-sightedness, to share wisdom I had to learn the hard way, wisdom I wish someone had shared with me before I made the same mistake - before it was almost too late.
But, I didn’t. I kept walking. And now, every time I see him – alone – which I often do, I can’t help but wish I hadn’t.
