Karma

You all may remember my moment of uncharacteristic bravery with a gorgeous cafe-goer some months back. If you don't feel like clicking the link to revisit the past, I'll sum up in short order:

Before I left the Seattle's Best Annex of Borders one late fall evening, I took the time to tell a fellow patron that he was beautiful and that I just wanted him to know that. The important part of that incident for me was not this excellent-looking creature, but me, feeling that I had the right to say something to him about it. I didn't want his number; I didn't need him to say anything. I simply needed to tell him. I rode the high for a week afterward.

Tonight, after a low-key, very adult-feeling happy hour with C and A at Pazo, I came home and quickly assessed that I had no dinner fixings. The tapas at the restaurant would not be enough to hold me over for the whole of the night, so I realized I'd have to call on my old friend the One World Cafe.

About 10 minutes after placing my carryout order (tuna sand on multigrain bread w/wasabi mayo and a small hot chocolate), I walked up the block to retrieve it. While waiting at the counter for the cashier to acknowledge me (he was on the phone) another young man appeared behind the counter. Based on his apron and the style of his pants, he seemed to be kitchen staff--perhaps a line chef. In any case, I thought for a moment, after he said "excuse me," that he wanted to help me, so I started to tell him my order, but he very tactfully stopped me and said:

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to tell you you're beautiful. He'll still be the one to help you [indicating the counter man who was still on the phone], but I just wanted to tell you that."

I thanked him, truly taken aback, but pleasantly so. I immediately thought about the fact that I didn't have on any lipstick and my hair had run the day's paces and looked like it had been through the ringer. Well. Maybe not that bad, but certainly not freshly coiffed. And still he said that to me.

There have been a handful of times in my life when a man's comments about my face or body have made me feel like garbage, though I knew he perceived his attentions to be positive.
And there have been a handful of times when a man's attentions have felt like a deposit into, not a withdrawal from, my spirit. This was one of those times.

I'm reminded of Bjork's song All is full of love. Things come back to you, always, eventually.