today at work i saw something weird in the bathroom. when i walked into my stall, there was a little altar of Splenda packets in front of the toilet. They were arranged with care and from my vantage point of 5’ 4” above ground (in addition to the fact that I never wear my glasses even tho i really should), they looked like soft canary feathers against the gray tile.
I thought to myself, "well, that's strange. Why would anyone ever bring 6 packets of Splenda into the bathroom and then leave them there?"
I came to the conclusion that a lot of things seem weird when you don't have all the information. And then when you do have all the information, you think, “Of course! How could I have thought it to be any other way? Silly me.”
My mom and I used to go shopping almost every weekend when I was in high school. Not to buy, just to browse is what we would say. Mom and I would walk around Fashion Valley, an amazing outdoor mall, and just "catch up”, often hand in hand. I remember one time, in front of Wet Seal, there was a man bent over a bunch of wires working away. A “work man" was what my mother called him. Other people would probably call him an "electrician." But I knew exactly who she was talking about when my mom whispered to me, “Uh muh nah! Look at what that work man is wearing” because this work man had on the most curious outfit. He had a very tiny white wife beater that stopped right under his pectoral muscles. This wife beater was paired with extraordinarily low jeans. His entire midriff was exposed and while that is not THAT strange in and of itself, what WAS strange was the fact that his midsection was a perfectly smooth, mottled tan, and completely devoid of hair. It was the hairless thing that seemed particularly odd given the fact that the work man had hair pouring out of every other visible nook and cranny. And i mean every. We literally stopped in our tracks.
Then the work man did the most peculiar thing. He took his entire midriff OFF. Well, okay fine. He didn't really take his midriff off. He was wearing a super wide, super tan, super hairless work belt. And he took THAT off. But the point is, well, we felt bad for jumping to conclusions before we knew the whole story. We should have given him the benefit of the doubt.
This takes me back to senior year at Wellesley College to a time when I hope someone gave me the benefit of the doubt. I lived on the top floor of Claflin Hall, one of the prettiest, most storybook dorms on campus. And to get to my room, one had to take a separate set of stairs up to the turrets.
In college, i had a friend who was very soft spoken. Let’s call her Tootsie. Tho Tootsie was quiet, she expressed all of her pent up aggression through activities that required force. Any kind of force whatsoever. What I mean by this is that she would SLAM doors shut. She would CRASH her books on the library table. She would CRACK every pencil she used. Tootsie stomped up my stairs with the grace of a hundred and one pachyderms. And, just in case there was any confusion, that’s not graceful at all.
It’s 9 am on a Sunday and I hear her heavy footsteps. Damn her. I'm going to teach her a lesson. I jump out of bed, dizzy/sleepy/drunk and stick my left foot in a shower slipper and the right foot in the high heels I wore the night before. I wrap a towel around my body and wobble through the door and scream BOOOOOOO!!!!!
It was a work man, not Tootsie, on the other side. Yup, there was his tan leather belt! The poor guy fell against the wall in surprise and screamed. I can hear his scream even now as I type. I really did think he was going to cry.
I felt so bad.
I jumped back into bed and could only hope that he would give me the benefit of the doubt. Just like I'm going to give the person who brought six packets of Splenda into the bathroom stall and left them there. There must be a reason that makes sense.
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