(This is my first post on my new tablet. HOPEFULLY, paragraphs will be allowed. Fair warning, I still cannot seem to locate a spell check button.)
"How are you today, young lady." Her voice was gentle and kind like the grandmother she probably was. I continued with the transaction. Ringing up her purchase, bagging her item. It is almost effortless to be kind to someone kind to you.
"Do you have a larger bag I could have," she asked. Continuing to explain the item she purchased from a vendor and the inadequate bag he gave her.
"Of course I do!" I assure her reaching for a large plastic bag. Than I remember the gift with purchase reusable tote bags we have. She may not have purchased the target item, but her kind voice was enough to qualify, to me.
She was ecstatic at the brightly colored bag. She blessed me again and again and I really just enjoyed making her day.
I turned to my waiting audiance, my assistant manager, Jake and my friend, Bobby. Both standing in shock, mouths agape.
"See!I can fake kindness." I yell. Demonstrating a previous accusation.
Nice, is not a word used to describe me. I am perfectly ok with this. However, as I explore the world of online dating, men continually request women who are kind. This really put a kink in the whole thing, for me.
But, lets be serious here. If us women are known for an ability, its FAKING. We fake happiness at unexpected houseguests, we fake liking that family member, we fake being neighborly, we fake knowing whats really going on. And youre all waiting for me to say it, we fake orgasims. So, why not kindness?
But, here is my question.....isn't "fake" kindness still kindness?
Sunday, February 12, 2012
When I was very young, I wanted to write. Poems, I was certain would be my natural specialty. In my scrapbook, I still have my first recorded poem. I wish I had a unicorn. I would ride it all day long. Odd that never panned out. In middle school I wanted to be an astronaut. I couldn't spell astronaut, so it was simply a verbal response. And highly influenced by the movie space camp. In high school, it was a lawyer. I wanted to wear tailored suits, sexy heels, argue with men and make a lot of money. In college, I landed a part time position in the school library. A combination of an early application and seven years volunteer service in libraries. This was the closest to my dream job. The librarian, Art was a perfect boss. Scolded me for walking around barefoot. Looked the other way when I ate behind the counter. Must important expanded my meager knowledge of book repairs. I was already reattaching loose pages and rebinding books with crude materials and sloppy technique. Art ordered an array of professional materials and guided my work. I loved it. Restoring documents could have been my profession. Until I made one of my classic bad decisions. Fast forward nineteen years. I'm a successful retail manager. The profit I bring my company every year is staggering compared to some of my Co workers. I pride myself on my ability to spot new talent and train up accordingly. I've cleaned up many an underperforming store, with this company and others before. I am content. I make a nice living. I was content. I say in a darkened theater three days ago watching a movie preview on the screen before me. A young boy on a selfish quest unintentionally effects the lives of strangers. Bettering their lives. At least, that's what I perceived from the preview. As the random photos of a wide variety of people only unified by their smiles or contented faces dotted the screen, I silently slowly began to redirect myself. Hello, my name is Cynthea. I'm twice divorced, been single forever. A mother of two amazing children with their own gifts. I started my adult life shy. Afraid to go to the grocery store by myself. I married my first husband because he wanted to. Oh and I was a princess and didn't want to work. I also had never been educated on finances and economics and believed if you had A job you automatically made enough money got everything you ever wanted. I was pretty upset when my husband showed me his paycheck. I married my second husband for essentially the same reason. Than. I got a clue. I'm the front runner. The leader. Organizer. Director. I walk into a situation, access and delegate. Follow up. Verify. However, when this all stops, when that life runs out... Nothing I accomplished (through my job) will matter. Not to anyone but some wealthy corporate execs. I want to be the silent person no one knows that provides that smile. I want to PROVIDE. I want to get my hands dirty. I want to work in relief. When I get home after a long day at work, I don't want my contentment to come from knowing all the sale pricing is done. The store made 10% over plan today. The planner is set. I'd like to know one less family will be homeless today. Forty people will fall sleep with full stomachs. A child learned to read and write five new words today. And I was a part of that. I understand I'm not going to submit an application, hop on a boat to Bangladesh and cure disease and famine. I understand I will have to start at the bottom. I also understand any skill set is valuable. And I too can make a difference. With my hands. *Not only is this obviously my first post, it was created on my phone. With little exploration of features. Also, the page isn't allowing me to reach the spell check button. My apologies. It will get better. ;)