A week ago, I did two things in the same day which, in both cases, I had never done before: (1) I went to Cleveland; (2) I flew across the country and immediately flew back the other way.
I had never had any latent desire to visit Cleveland, particularly in the dead of winter, but fatherly duty compelled me to do so, since I had to escort one of my beloved children to a fencing tournament and, in turn, escort a different beloved child back to our fair town of Palo Alto. It was during the return trip that we enter the topic of this little post.
While waiting at the Cleveland airport, I had the need to swiftly get to our gate in order to secure adjacent seats for me and my child. The airport resembles a linear accelerator, since it’s very, very, very long, sort of like a mile-long hallway. I was beginning to traverse this length when a woman pulled up in an electric cart that looked like this:
I was grateful to the woman who picked me up, because I had abandoned my kid (and my martini) at an airport club lounge, and time was of the essence. Some of you may find it surprising, given my occasional pissy personality on Slope, but I’m a cordial conversationalist (particularly when a person is helping me out), so I started to chat with the lady.
She was terribly friendly, and I felt kind of bad inside for her that she had this job. All she did, day after day, was drive this little cart up and down this massively long corridor. Up, then back. And then up, and back again. And then once more. Forever.
I didn’t say anything like this, of course. I was just making small talk, tainted with my typically dark view of the world (“Have you ever had a kid run out in front of your cart?”). However, she volunteered something I never expected: “I love my job. It’s different every day.”
My cynical nature assumed she was making a deeply sarcastic comment, but it turns out she was absolutely serious. She proudly rattled off a few famous folks she had driven in her little cart (Sugar Ray Leonard was one, I think) and mentioned how much she liked talking to people. She got to meet people from all over the world, and she loved the variety.
I felt really bad, and really small. I felt bad because I had assumed, quite incorrectly, that she would have just barely tolerated her job, just because she needed the money to survive, when in fact she had an utterly positive attitude. And I felt small because I have a job, and lead a life, that 99% of the world would break through walls to have, yet I bitch, bellyache, and indulge in self-pity virtually without interruption. I was ashamed.
I wrote a memo to myself some time ago which I read from time to time to try to remind myself of how to live better. I do a pretty poor job of following these rules, but I do try. Here they are – I’ve never shared them with anyone else before – but I am inspired to do so because of this experience. We could all stand to live more gratefully, and this woman helped me see that more clearly.
+ Live Gratefully: occupy your mind with what you have, which is ample, instead of what you lack.
+ Behave Carefully: pace your actions and words, since they both have power and consequence
+ Own Responsibility: know that your circumstances may be beyond your control, but how you behave within those circumstances is yours utterly
+ Shift your attitude from one of control to one of trust
+ Become curious about the things that you fear
I truly hope I do better as time goes on. None of this comes naturally to me.
