Yesterday, a worker at Whole Foods caught my eye. It wasn’t so much that I was attracted to him except yeah, probably a little. It was more so that I was attracted to what he was doing: standing outside the store’s entrance, sanitizing grocery carts and noting how many customers walked through the doors.
Fascinating, isn’t it? Just enthralling, right?
Kidding, though only partly because I actually was intrigued.
I was intrigued because as he leaned against the wall, drumming his fingers on the beige concrete, I was peering out my car window, thinking of all I would give to trade places with him.
He probably didn’t know his job is a challenge for someone like me. He was probably unaware that while he was standing in the sun with ease, I was watching from afar, boiling with raging envy. Frankly, he probably takes his whole gig for granted, and for that, I really can’t blame him.
I know with absolute certainty my old self would’ve done the same. Without even closing my eyes, I can see 17-year old me leaning against that wall, checking my phone periodically, willing the time to move faster. Years ago, I was unaware that standing is a privilege, that it could and would be stolen for me, over and over again. My old self took it all for granted too, each and every day, and to that I say, of course she did. She didn’t know how much she could lose.
Even so, in my envious state, I’m convinced if it were me in that job, I’d cherish every minute of it. My yearning persuades me that for the rest of my life, the art of standing will never be lost on me; that every successful hour on my feet will feel victorious, euphoric even. I know I’m being generous, and eventually the novelty of standing will wear off. But staring at that Whole Foods worker on a warm Friday afternoon, I felt assured that what to him is probably considered mundane, will forever feel miraculous to me.
It is worth noting my stop at Whole Foods took place following a physical therapy session, so POTS was certainly heavy on the brain. But it always is, that’s nothing new. POTS is with me wherever I go.
I’m aware, all things considered, that I could do that job, right now, if I wanted to. I’d need a stool, maybe a fan, but I could do it. And that would be okay, to need a stool or other accommodations, except that I don’t want a stool. I want to stand in the sun in front of Whole Foods, greeting people for hours until everyone went home. And I want to feel well, up on my feet, without the dizziness and high heart rate that usually ensues. And I want to leave that shift without feeling utterly exhausted, and I want to wake up the next day and do it all over again.
I want to do that job and I want it to be easy. I want to feel so well, sanitizing those carts, that I dare to bravely deem myself bored. I want to feel so normal, standing there in the glorious sun, that for the first in a long time, I take it all for granted too.
If I were more brave and cared less of what others think, I would tell people these things. I would walk up to them and scream into their face, “Don’t you know how lucky you are?” In my daydreams, I do.
But in real life, I sit inside my car, nursing my longing, swallowing my rage. I fiddle with the radio, tuning out words I never say, waiting for my mother to eventually return with the groceries.
She does, puts them in the trunk, I put the car in drive. I hear the click of her seatbelt next to me, and then, we drive away.
