Maybe I should try to understand a little bit more about Dave before I read his poems on his blog and become wrought with petty jealousy. I know that he's had a ... ahem ... colorful past, not to mention the fact that he has a few more years of life experience under his belt.
I read about his ex-girlfriend folding freshly dried clothes whilst he reclines in front of a Cubbies game, or her beckoning him back to bed and the mention that his body (which, might I add, is something I constantly admire for all of its anomalies and undulations) was bare as he stood in front of the window, and I get jealous. Not really jealous, but it's more like knowing vaguely that there are girls in his past versus seeing the evidence from a first-hand account that there are girls in his past. The view makes all the difference.
His friends tell me that as they see him now, he's never been happier in his life, which to me is interesting, considering all of my shortcomings. But knowing that his heart is full and he's thriving makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
When I read in his work about how depressed and self-destructive he once was, I pity him. But I know in my heart that this will work, that we'll be happy. I know more than anything else that our life is really what I need. I know that I'll thrive with him, just as he thrives with me.
So, we're both happier than we've ever been in our lives. That's to say, I'm happier living and believing than living and thusly trying to perfect my life experience through a constant psychoanalysis of what I'm doing right and what I'm doing not-so-right.
Yes, I have a glass of burgundy nightly. Yes, I relish my carbs. Yes, I love to do my yoga to music. Yes, yes, yes ... I'm happy.
Yesterday as I exited the southbound Cedars-terminating train, I walked toward the center of the platform to await the train's departure in order to cross the tracks. As I strolled toward the awning, I noticed a briefcase and an arm protruding from the train car's double doors.
After walking a few steps closer, the sight of the elderly black man stuck in the double doors hit me like a tidal wave. I dropped my coffee and my knitting bag and rushed over to him. He seemed quite hysterical, just flailing, unable to release himself from the mechanized grip of the doors. A young man came to our aide an as I tugged on the man's torso, he grappled with the door in an effort to free the man from what was probably the most frightful experience he's had in ages.
The doors released the aged gentleman's body and he gulped air to fill his panicked lungs. Gravity grabbed hold of the poor old man and after a single step he collapsed, scattering his cane, briefcase and other personal items. Trying to lift the codger from the ground, the young man pulled in vain on his arm. I gently put my arms under the man's shoulders and with all of my might, we lifted the man to his feet from his painful posture on the ground.
He showered me with thanks as I helped him gather his things. It was no problem to help a person who was in desperate need of it.
What really came as a shock was the number of men that just stood idly as this old gentleman needed assistance. The fact that the train's own driver didn't exit the front of the train to help or make an effort to open the doors manually made my blood boil once the episode was over.
What would it take for some people to shun such apathy? What would it take for some people to realize that it is their duty as decent human beings to help others when they obviously need it?
Maybe they weren't all that decent after all ...