Growing Old is Not for Sissies!

Let me preface this by saying that 54 years of age is not and should not be old!

But in the past several months, I have nagging little health issues that are probably a consequence of my younger days atop a horse. Specifically, I have nasty pain in both hips, pain in my right shoulder (probable rotator cuff) and female problems. Of course my back and knees are ongoing issues but I am pretty used to them.

I have been holding myself together trying to get my daughter “raised.” And she has been getting job interviews and I am hopeful something will come to fruition—and soon. I am so tired of trying to maintain a household on my crappy income—two people living on what really isn’t adequate for one person.

I have a perfectly good house and husband located two hours to the south of where I sit at this moment. Had I not moved up here to at least try to get good work for myself (and I define good work as work with benefits… which I have not gotten anywhere close to in 10 years of trying!) and live closer to several colleges, my daughter might well be married to some local guy, utterly dissatisfied with her life, living in a place with limited opportunities.

If she gets a job, I think it’s just fine if I choose to move back home; the limited work I do can be dome remotely, with maybe a trip to San Jose once a month, if that. I could also start dealing with my health issues, having what little income I can earn go toward co-pays and doctor bills. At any rate, I am hoping my daughter gets a job soon … now if only I could make her understand just how bad my hip pain is, and how it’s turning me into a hermit!

Sleep-Deprivation and the Blessed Pope John Paul II

I do need to get a good night’s sleep in the worst way! For a change it’s not pain keeping me up, but television. First I pulled a nearly all-nighter watching the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton early Friday morning. Just as I caught up with sleep, I remembered that this weekend was to be that of Pope John Paul II’s beatification ceremony, and tripped over a live broadcast.

I have no doubt that John Paul was someone special and utterly worthy of sainthood. Maybe he isn’t as flashy as many of the “older” saints, but in our time, when a miracle has to be something very special to attract the Church’s attention.

John Paul II was so charismatic, something that is impossible to see on television. No doubt that is where most have seen him. I was one of the lucky few to have breathed the same air as he, at Carmel Mission in the fall on 1987. I’d volunteered to provide emergency medical services for media covering the Pope’s visit to the Monterey Peninsula. He presided over mass at Laguna Seca raceway, and following that mass, was headed to the mission for lunch with priests, take a short nap, and then head to his next stop, which I think was San Francisco.

The Monterey Diocese set up big-screen televisions for us to watch the mass, so we could feel closer and also know what was going on. I can’t remember the exact time John Paul II was to arrive at the mission; I believe it was noon or 1 p.m. The media room was at the back of the mission, situated in such a way that we would not be able to see him arrive or depart. Yes, all of us volunteering were disappointed we’d not see him, but there was a kind of peace in knowing we’d served him somehow…
As the day drew to a close, we were told that John Paul wanted to thank the volunteers who were not able to lay eyes on him. A decision was made to have him depart the mission from a different entrance/exit; he would exit into an open area, walk to his limo, and then the limo would drive on a circular path so as many of us could see him as possible.

Watching him walk out was so unreal… John Paul II was still very active and fit, and had some sort of energy around him. I know that sounds stupid, but it was just a feeling I’d not yet ever experienced. I was far enough away I could not see facial expressions; I was standing quite far from the limo. But the Pope had decided he wanted us to be able to see him, and he wanted to thank us. He drove right by me, and though I am sure everyone felt the same, I just know he looked right at me.
There was a grace, a sense of peace and a sense that I was close to someone extraordinary. He did his famous wave, and kept it up until the limo was on the straight driveway and out of our sight.

I know the moment was extraordinary, because to this day, I can close my eyes and recall a 20-second memory clip of John Paul II in the limo, driving in that circular drive, looking at me. I do not have any other memories that play in my mind’s eye that long. Yes, I have flashes of special moments, but Pope John Paul II is a full 20-second memory clip that I can recall by closing my eyes and asking for it. When John Paul II lay mortally ill, I could recall that memory and would pray for him while it was playing. When I heard he’d passed, I was at an Oakland A’s game. There was a moment of silence announced on the loudspeaker, and I closed my eyes and recalled that memory.

Okay, so that might not be a spectacular miracle. To me it is enough to know that John Paul II did and does have God’s ear. Last night I prayed to the newly-Blessed John Paul II and congratulated him and gave thanks for him giving me the opportunity to lay eyes on him. John Paul II is no doubt the only pope I will have seen in person in my lifetime. Sure, I wish I had a photograph of John Paul II during that visit, but I think my 20-second memory clip is far more valuable.

A Cautionary "Old Age" Tale, and Some Advice for New Nurses

I’ve had a bit of a rough day today with pain and all… my back aches, my left hip hurts. I’m getting my neurotomies on Tuesday so the end, for awhile at least, is on the horizon. I need to earn a little more money to see an ortho doc about my hip. I have three projects in various stages of readiness; two have tight deadlines that I won't meet if I can't sit at my desk.

So it’s been one of those days I have been reflecting on how I got here, all beat to shit. There are two reasons why I am such a physical mess today: horses and working as a nurse. One gave me pleasure, the other money and heartache.

I rode daily from fifth grade to my senior year in high school. I rode anything with a mane and tail that I could climb on. Several times that meant I climbed on something a bit rank and paid the price by hitting the pavement. But I wouldn’t change a thing, because horses kept me out of a lot of trouble and you truly do not know companionship with an animal until you have teamed with a horse. I miss contact with horses on a daily basis. I love my cats, I really do, but there is nothing like the challenge of an equine.

The second reason I am paying physically is from working as an RN in a small community hospital that enjoyed being understaffed. I suffered too many back injuries to count, doing work that should have been done by housekeeping or a nurse’s aid. Might I have put up with the pain longer had I been properly “engaged” in the job?

I remember a pair of days when I showed up to work and the other RN was an older woman, older than I am now, who worked v-e-r-y slowly and was usually better at passing medication all day. It was all she could do to keep up with the medication needs of anywhere between 10 and 24 patients. There was everything at that hospital—med/surg, OB & newborns, pediatrics, and a 4-bed ICU/CCU. As I recall there were no critical patients in that room those days. During the day shift an RN would be called upon to stay with a patient in post-anesthesia recovery, which was the ICU. Same location, slightly different duties.

One of us had to be charge nurse. I stepped up, but the director of nurses said “Rose is older than you, so she’s charge nurse.” So I passed pills, took care of a couple of post-op patients, and took care of a woman in labor while Rose sat on her duff and took “reports” from nurses’ aids. I did the work of two RNs that day. I didn’t even have time for lunch. Rose took hers. And both breaks.

The way that hospital was set up, all the meds nurse did was pass pills (scheduled and as needed) and make sure she charted what she had done on the medication record. IF she had time on her hands, she could volunteer to help where needed. Because Rose was so slow, that seldom happened. Because Rose was so slow, if I had a patient who needed a pain med, I’d get the chart, find out what I could give, go to the medication cart where Rose was no doubt hanging around, ask for the narcotic key and medicate the patient myself. Rose usually made patients wait awhile, because she didn’t want to wreck her train of thought.

Fifteen minutes before the shift was to end, there was a medical admission from the clinic next door—I believe the guy was a possible pancreatitis, because the doctor told me the patient was an alcoholic and to give him some Librium STAT to keep him in the bed. Rose should have taken that patient and prepared his nursing assessment, but she said, “I am busy charting and getting ready for report, you do it.” She wouldn’t even take the doctor’s call—I was called to the nurses’ station from another patient’s bedside to take the admission orders! Again, something Rose as charge should have done.

So when I claimed 2 hours of overtime that day the supervisors flipped. (I did not finish my paperwork and the paperwork of the new patient until 5 p.m., shift “over” at 3:30 AND I’d had no lunch break that day, because if I didn’t do it, no one on my shift would have!) I told them Rose had been utterly useless, that I had done the bulk of the work that day (easily verified by looking at the patient charts, I was flying!) and that I would NEVER be put in that situation again. “You either work me as charge, pay me that differential and I’ll run around and do the work while Rose plugs along passing her pills, or you will not expect me to work with Rose as the charge nurse EVER again.”

A month later I looked on the schedule, and lo and behold, there were two RNs scheduled for one anticipated slow day—me and Rose. There was a “C” by Rose’s name, which meant she would be charge nurse. I went to my immediate supervisor (the one who made the schedule) and said, “I told you that I will NOT work in that situation, and if you don’t fix it, I won’t show up. I will NOT do the work of two nurses because one is too slow!”

Their excuse for doing it again: “We want to engage Rose more.”

Mind you, she was retirement age then. I was in my late 20s or so, and had worked as an RN for six years at that hospital. I was the nurse who never refused a shift. I was the nurse physicians inquired about regarding my availability to take care of their laboring women or women who needed elective labor inductions. I was the nurse who would come in for the night shift and stay for the day shift, or work the p.m. shift and stay into the night shift to help.

And which nurse SHOULD they have tried harder to engage?

I did not work that shift. Well, I didn’t work it as it was… I was taken off the schedule for that day, but the place got busy and asked me to come into work, which I ALWAYS did. There was Rose, plugging along with her precious pill cart, where she needed to be. I delivered babies, covered ER, and had a great day with a nurse closer to my age who worked as charge twice a week.

So what is the moral? Don’t kill yourself doing your job, because 20 years later, no one cares. You have to care for yourself, NOW. Be careful, and make smart priorities. You will thank me in the end.

Perceptions

You never know who you will trip over using Facebook. Today I reconnected with a classmate who I thought “had it all” in high school—ran with the A-group, was popular, and got good grades effortlessly. I’d seen her name in common with other friends I’d reconnected with, but because she was part of that A-list, I figured she would not at all be interested in connecting with me. She was never really nasty toward me; we simply went in different circles. I wanted to be where she was; to the very wise movie “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion,” sums up high school society and pecking order well: I was not part of the A-crowd, or the B-crowd, or the jocks, or the C-crowd/dorks.

One of my oldest friends was part of this A-list. I’ll call her Lee because her name is very unusual and if she’d ever Google herself, this would pop up! She and I met when we were four years old; we lived about 5 miles out of town within walking distance, perhaps a half-mile from each other. I remember one of our early play dates, playing with Barbie dolls and Breyer model horses. Lee and I took dance class lessons on Saturdays; her mom drove us into town because my mom didn’t drive at the time. A few years later, Lee would walk to my house on Saturday mornings to watch “The Beatles” cartoons, because her television wouldn’t get it. This was in the days before cable, before satellites. Because we lived in a canyon, television reception was limited, and her family didn’t have access to a high enough hill to place an antenna like my father had. Consequently, our television got two stations and hers only one. Take that, kids of today with hundreds of channels!

When Lee missed a month of first grade with a kidney infection, I had to face her scary teacher and get her homework every day on my way to the bus. I was released from my class five minutes early to pick up the homework, and then her mom would come over and pick it up, and give me stuff to take in the next morning. In fourth grade, when I was sick with both kinds of measles and missed the entire month of February, she did the same for me. When each of us finally got horses of our own, we rode all day every weekend, and would jump off the school bus at our respective stops, change into riding clothes, catch our horses and ride until dark.

But around 4^th or 5^th grade, Lee started hanging out exclusively with a bunch of girls who were simply the “it” crowd—wanna-be cheerleaders, girls who had high fashion clothes, girls who wore hairpieces, girls who were getting attention from the boys that you wanted to get attention from, girls who were getting breasts! We’d ride the school bus into town, and she and I would sit together several stops until one of the A-listers got on the bus. Then I had leprosy and she pretended not to know me at school at all.

And the people she ran with were, in hindsight, bitches. Probably the two worst were Penny and Ann. They started sprouting breasts before junior high. Penny in particular was very pretty, the youngest in her family, the treasure. And she expected to be treated like one. She was always picking verbal altercations with me, saying stuff like “So and so told me you were talking shit about me.” This continued from 4^th grade all the way through high school.

Ann also had breasts and a waistline. In seventh grade her mother bought her a fall to wear in her hair. She wore an actual bra with cups. She and I should have been friends because we had the same knee problem—dislocating kneecaps. I remember it happening to her several times in physical education. I felt so bad for her, but she was such a bitch at other times, I stopped trying to be sympathetic or give her comfort when her kneecap dislocated.

There was a Cathy, like me. Her family lived down the street from my aunt, who lived in town. Her younger sister was one of my younger cousin’s best friends. No matter to Cathy, she was dismissive and treated me as a subhuman.

Paula was the daughter of a farmer, so because our fathers ran in the same circles, she was nicer to me. Same with Deanna; she lived on the same street as my aunt. Deanna had an older brother who was pretty cute, with longish blonde hair.

I’d read Deanna’s comments on friends’ Facebook pages. I knew who she was but did not reach out to her. I figured she still had the A-lister attitude toward me, though in adulthood, Stacey was nicer to me—our daughters were close in age—and Lee and I had carpooled our kids to a private school over an hour away for two years. And horrors of horrors, when I married, Ann had the guts to show up to my wedding uninvited. Her brother had been our best man, her parents were of course invited but I purposefully omitted her name on the envelope. At least she was nice to me on my wedding day, and was nice to me when her brother married a year or two later.

I’ve avoided class reunions because until ten years ago I did not think I measured up. I hadn’t finished a 4-year degree, and had kept in touch with few in my graduating class. I hated high school and wanted to distance myself from it.

I connected with Deanna today and learned that they HAD seen me throughout school, or at least she had, and remembered some specific things/incidents we had in common, most notably the recollections of a school play in 6^th grade where I played the lead. Yes I was quite the actress.

She remembers me, as I was—a sarcastic, smart gal with strawberry blonde hair who didn’t have a boyfriend because I didn’t play stupid. And she shocked me when she told me she’d been on the periphery of that A-list, and it was only after she’d moved away to college that she realized what having a true friend was, and they apparently weren’t that.

Moral of this story: Isn’t it strange just how erroneous your perception of things can be?

Writing Inspiration

George again. He was a beautiful man. What is sad about this photo is the cigarette he always had in the 1960s—that is what killed him.

I’ve tripped over an excellent writing opportunity today and I need quick inspiration! It’s a pretty heavy-duty bit of writing that must be completed by May 1. So instead of staring at a blank computer screen or blank piece of paper, I decided to try an old technique from fifth grade. That was a long time ago, okay? Like 1966… so their “old stuff” works best for me, from Sgt. Pepper (summer of 1967 between fifth and sixth grade) and before that. The “new” stuff, except for a few songs, usually something by George, just wasn’t as inspirational for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because they weren’t as inspired anymore, at least until 1969’s Abbey Road, which was released when I was in 8th grade. I was old enough to be able to appreciate their music but a few years to fully participate, and by that I mean ever see them live. I have two friends who did just that, and I am so jealous, though it wasn’t about the music, hence the Beatles gave it up in August 1966, when I was still 9 years old.

I used to get much inspiration from listening to the Beatles music. I don’t know why. It clears my mind, points me in the right direction. I sing my heart out to the music and for some reason, what I need comes to me. Perhaps it’s a case of what
George Harrison said about songs—they are out there, you just have to find a way to grab them.

Tonight I found myself listening to their music but taking a conscious effort to hear George’s voice where I knew it should be, as he didn’t sing on every song. He had a distinctive nasally voice that didn’t fit every song. And yes, the inspiration came to me and I know exactly what I am going to write, but I have this overwhelming sadness remembering how I felt in late November 2001 when word got out George wasn’t doing well at all, and was about to lose his battle with cancer. And the day he died I simply could not hear any Beatles music or look at his image. Of course I bought all of the commemorative magazines but I stowed them away. It took me a good two or three years before I could hear a song with his voice somewhere in it and not get teary-eyed. And less than a month later, when my grandmother died of the same thing George did, I was still so empty over losing him that I could not properly mourn her.

Anyway, I write these few words to thank George for sending me inspiration, like he always did. Thank you for leaving the music you left… I have my lead and the angle I am going to take on a difficult bit of writing. You always come through for me.

Lost Music, Sometimes Found

George Harrison and his Turkish Angora cat Corky

It’s an early Sunday morning and I’ve just watched the movie “Now and Then” for the second time this week. For those who may not have seen it, “Now and Then” is the female version of “Stand By Me.” It is set in 1970; the main characters a year-and-a-half to two years younger than I was at the time, but there wasn’t much difference between what they did to keep themselves occupied during the long summer months. I remember the summer of 1970 very well; I’d graduated from 8^th grade, and we started the summer in Lodi looking for Nazi gold (seriously! One of my father’s dearest friends from childhood felt there is Nazi gold buried on a property near Lodi, and my dad and uncle gathered the brood and we all watched and waited for a bulldozer to find it—needless to say we didn’t!), and I ended the summer with a bang by starting my period a week before reporting to high school. In between we’d ride horses during the morning and evening hours (sometimes with a transistor radio looped over the saddle horn, though the local AM station really played poppy stuff unless you requested something else), and hang out by my parent’s new pool during the heat of the day. Probably the “worst” thing to happen that summer was coming to the understanding that the Beatles had indeed broken up, the breakup having been announced that spring—and just as I was getting old enough to fully appreciate their music to the point of picking up a guitar and teaching myself to play.

Music used to be a big part of my life. From the 5^th through 7^th grade I took clarinet lessons in school, so I used to be able to read music. The clarinet doesn’t really have a place in rock music though… I have always loved guitar-driven music with creative vocal harmonies and catchy lyrics—not to the point of being a fan of the really “poppy” stuff, because the guitar licks just were not there. Besides loving the Beatles’ music, I also liked Cream, and the Beatles’ protégées Badfinger, and I especially remember a song called “All Right Now” by a band named Free being all over the place that summer. Notice a trend? They are all British, and all very guitar-driven!

Unfortunately for me, I chose not to have a whole lot of fun in my high school classes. I’d wanted to graduate early, so I took nothing but college prep classes, which left no time for any music classes. I changed that my junior year when I finally had enough and dropped out of Spanish III to take guitar; during my senior half-year I took choir, where my voice was identified as being contralto and when I discovered that when acting I could do nearly anything, including sing, though I did my best singing when stoned on pot. Yep, I was quite the little pothead.

I bought all of the Beatles sheet music and taught myself the rhythm parts (I had two sets of Beatles’ music books—one with rhythm guitar tabs, the second lead, which I never really got good at). I came to appreciate just how hard the guitar is to learn, and I’d chosen to learn to play on a steel-stringed Yamaha acoustic I bought for $75 with my own money. I learned to change strings, to tune by ear, and by the summer of 1972 was comfortable enough to play in front of people, to the point I traveled around Spain for 6 weeks carrying that Yamaha acoustic and jamming at night. I’d never be a George Harrison (though he was my favorite by that time, hence I’ve used this photo of him I recently tripped over—what a beautiful man he was!), but I could play and sing most of the Beatles’ songs, a couple of Badfinger’s songs, and some Neil Young stuff, too.

Every so often I’ll hear songs from the early 1970s and remember that there was good music despite disco being shoved down everyone’s throats by the middle of the decade. I’ll wish I still had that Yamaha acoustic—my stepbrother learned to play on it and I think he sold it, which makes me very sad, that guitar had truly gone to battle! I’ll listen to certain songs that fit my vocal range and sing my heart out. Tonight’s song was from “Now and Then”—Badfinger’s “No Matter What.” That lead to a pair of Badfinger songs: “Baby Blue” and “Day After Day.” And yes, I used to be able to play those songs, and in public, too!

There are times I am tempted to buy another acoustic guitar—I’m betting I still can find my Beatles’ sheet music! I wonder if returning to music might be good for me …

Jaded? Cynical? I Guess I Am …

Jaded: 1. fatigued by overwork : EXHAUSTED 2: made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience or by surfeit (jaded network viewers; jaded voters)
Cynical: 1. CAPTIOUS, PEEVISH 2: having or showing the attitude or temper of a cynic: as
a : contemptuously distrustful of human nature and motives (those cynical men who say that democracy cannot be honest and efficient — F. D. Roosevelt)
b : based on or reflecting a belief that human conduct is motivated primarily by self-interest (a cynical ploy to win votes)

How has this bit of self-assessment come about?

While watching coverage of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan over the past couple of days, I could not help but notice the difference in behavior between the Japanese people and how Americans behave in time of disaster. Specifically, thus far I have not seen, heard or read a thing about widespread looting and vandalism anywhere in the affected areas. I vividly remember seeing news videos during Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, including people openly stealing from stores—and not stealing food or other things one needs to live, but stealing televisions, electronics, pretty much anything not tied down. I remember that people affected by Katrina demanded that “the government” do something for them. I remember stories about FEMA queens demanding their government assistance, receiving debit cards intended to provide assistance in acquiring food and lodging, and using those federally-acquired funds to buy flat screen televisions and designer handbags.

I’ve not seen any of that behavior from the Japanese people. From the outside, it looks like many people heeded the tsunami warnings, and though I expect the death toll will be in the thousands, the fact that so many people did survive tells me they did not sit around waiting for the government to “do something” for them, specifically evacuation. No one expected the tsunami wave to reach 6 miles inland.

I am glad there are United States military assets able to help in search, rescue and recovery. That’s one reason to ensure our military is always at the ready for humanitarian missions. I expect the Japanese people will rebuild their nation quickly and efficiently, and find a way to improve things. I also expect that Japan does have the economic backbone to finance rebuilding efforts themselves.

Here comes my jaded, cynical attitude.

Why is it in time of natural disaster it’s expected that the United States pick up the pieces for every damn country that suffers a natural disaster or war? While Japan is indeed a reliable ally today, a little thing called Pearl Harbor and World War II is still an important piece of history and there are still people alive today who vividly remember these events.

It was the United States, or rather U.S. dollars, that rebuilt Japan. Japan’s economy is in much better shape than ours. We have millions of people who are un- or under-employed through no fault of their own, people whose unemployment “benefits” may be long gone or expiring soon. We have American citizens and families going hungry and without creature comforts that many others take for granted. But it’s not glamorous to talk about them, and it’s not glamorous to donate money or goods in our own nation. You don’t see celebrities making appeals for the regular American who may not have endured a natural disaster but who is enduring joblessness through no fault of his or her own.

Charities are of course popping up to help Japan in this time of crisis. However, I’d think that what is really needed are goods and services, provided by human beings, not money. Japan has the money; Japan can pay for those goods and services. American farmers certainly can produce what the Japanese people need, but it’s up to Japan to ask for what they need. A story on CNN revealed that there are food shortages, specifically rice, bottled water, fresh produce and bread. I think the United States produces those things in abundance and I’m sure the U.S. will be happy to provide those goods.

My second question is why the crappy behavior from Americans in time of disaster, a la Katrina or even times of civil unrest—why do Americans find it so easy to commit vandalism and thievery? They aren’t breaking into stores to steal food and water—they are taking physical goods. Those same Americans expect the government to “do something,” to fix whatever they think is wrong or unjust by giving them something. I’m sick of people being so non-self-efficient, and I look at how Japan is coping, and wish that Americans could be more like the Japanese.

I also wish that people residing in the United States, citizens and those here legally—people enjoying economic success and who are in a position to help Americans less fortunate would do so—but I suppose helping American citizens simply isn’t glamorous enough.

Why am I such a Negative Nelly? I really didn’t used to be this way. I want to believe that people are inherently good and honest, but the past ten years have taught me otherwise. Especially since late 2008, times have been very tough for others and myself. It seems that the ability to get good gainful work is a crapshoot and it’s a case of who you know and if you are lucky enough to run in a circle where cronyism is the way of doing things. It doesn’t matter if you are good at what you do, or know you could really rock a job, if given the chance. It hurts like hell to see people less qualified get that great job—and it hurts worse when racism is involved.

I am cynical and distrustful because of the job that community college district did to me. I purposefully grossly underbid my services in the hope—and with the promise from the chancellor herself—that my thoughtfulness and lack of greed would be rewarded by hiring me for the job once the district was able to budget for the full-time position. Once she’d hired someone else for the job, she didn’t even have the decency to speak to me about why I wasn’t awarded the job after doing the job for nearly two years—and doing that job well. Or at least I was told I was doing it well. So much for kindness and trust—where does that get you? Screwed over, I guess.

Same goes for the place I’ve provided editing services to for over ten years—I turn my work over quickly, I have not asked for a pay raise in 6 or 7 years, yet for some reason, I haven’t received any work from them since December. Why? One of my guesses is one of the usual over published, full-of-herself Ph.D.-educated authors doesn’t like for me to edit her work because I catch holes and biases in her research, so she’s made complaints and the new research director found it easier to sell me down the river as opposed to say to this researcher “Well, maybe she is right about errors in your stuff.”

Submitting resumes is an act of futility, but I guess I enjoy self-flagellation?

Being burned as much as I have, it’s pretty hard to see any good anywhere in humanity. Hence, I trust my cats more than pretty much any human right now!

This doesn’t mean I won’t continue to try to deliver a random act of kindness whenever I can—but I will stop believing that I will receive any kindness or consideration from others. Today I let an elderly Japanese woman cut in line ahead of me at Costco. She had an armful of foodstuffs; I had a full cart. Why make her stand behind me, I said to myself, and motioned for her to get in front of me. She said “Really?” and I replied, “Of course, why make you stand there? You go ahead of me!” Once she was done, she turned to me and with a huge smile offered her sincere thanks.

It’s just that easy to melt a jaded cynic’s heart, if only for a few seconds.