alked into my local bookstore about thirty minutes before zen class. The place was about to close (for the public) and the owner had two young adults working the front (I think it is some sort of work-credit thing – I always see different young people working around the place).
Now this part was weird – I’m not sure what their gender was. Both of them had crazy hair and lipstick and spoke in “valley-girl” lingo. But something said that they might, deep down, have XY chromosomes.
If you think I’m bothered by this, I’m not. This is Colonialtown. Many of our neighbors are gay (our good friends down the block are a same-sex married couple, and we’ve known them for years). I’ve seen guys with mohawks peddling bikes down Corrine drive, I’ve seen all sorts of hoodie-wearing laptoppers in the local coffee shops, I’ve ridden critical mass. I’ve even flown over this part of town in an airship. Yeah, it’s a dynamically wonderful place (in exactly the way that The Villages are not).
So, anyway, I said hi to them and they said hello back, very squeaky and tipity. I noticed a book on a shelf and slid it out. Buy it? Hmmm?
“You know what sort of person you remind me of,” one of them smiled up towards me, disarming and goodheartedly). I turned and looked back at her (we’ll go with that). She laughed. “You remind me of the crusty, bookish professor type. But I mean that in a good way.”
And I took it in a good way. That’s the sort of person I am, and hope to convey to those around me. I like people to think of me as well-read, cultured, thoughtful type of man. I want to be seen as liberal (and if that sets off your alarm bells, Christ, enough with the sloganism). So her calling me out was fitting, reaffirming and nice.
“You nailed it,” I smiled back.
Still have my glow when we sat for meditation. And no, that doesn’t count for anything. But I’m still smiling.