It was one of those Sundays where I had to give up an hour of my day to go unload a truck full of instruments. It’s hard to plan your day around such a short shift, but I prefer it to the Saturday nights that I go in at 10:30 at night. Those nights I give up on fun before it can even begin.
Each Sunday, after circling for a parking spot (I swear there are more cars in downtown Saint Paul than there are people), I walk into the main entrance of my building and head straight for the security desk. What I am looking for is the bird’s eye view on the loading dock and whether our big black truck has already lowered its hydraulics.
No truck yet. I run upstairs to grab the road chairs and stands that we had to ditch due to space constraints last week. I take the two loads down the freight and as I’m bailing the cargo I hear the garage door open. Perfect timing.
My co-worker and I can be caught in moments that only siblings know how to have. We can get sassy, snarky and snippy with each other, only to follow it up with a sly sideways smirk. Sometimes we shove. Sometimes we give nuggies. Sometimes we hear “Children! Behave!” The behavior is a direct result of the long hours we spend together and our attempt to keep it entertaining every minute.
Sunday I came through the garage door to see him inside the truck rolling the next trunk onto the lift gate. I take the appropriate place at the lip of the lift and grab hold of the handle that just rolled up to my face. That day it was beyond snarky, that day a nerve was hit.
A new stagehand (well, new to me) was on the ground rolling the carts indoors with me. I was introduced to Don as being the one that does “all the little stuff in SPCO Center”. Nail sufficiently driven through the ego. A pile driver delivering the blow. I shot back with a tongue that mostly my family knows, “Wow, thanks for belittling me”. He caught that nerve because it’s how I’ve been feeling about my job these days, where more and more of the big production has been getting taken away from me (because they suck, not because I suck). This story actually goes somewhere else, not pity-work-party.
Just as quickly as I responded, he shot back, “ Geeze, you’re so sensitive!” I quickly laughed at how caught up in that sentence I got. I shook the serious out and said, “Sensitive is not usually a word people use to describe me.” True. I can recall more times I have been deemed insensitive over its antonym. I remember times when I’ve told whining men to use their big boy voices (which doesn’t go over well in a relationship, FYI). There’s a reason why my sister always says I’m the ‘dude’ in relationships. Now, I’m not trying to sound bad-ass, tough guy. It’s really not about being cool or hard, I just figure life is too short to spend it upset. I have my emotional moments like anyone does. But for being a dainty person, I’m pretty sure my thick skin makes up 70% of my body mass index.
Skip ahead to today. Skip with me now. Left, right, left. That’s right!
Insert another repetitive description of my occupational commute. Almost home with one stop light left to sit through. Brain is wondering again and suddenly my sinuses clear and start to burn. My eyesight gets a little blurry. I slammed into an emotional thought. A car accident in a way. It wasn’t of the self-depreciating variety. It wasn’t traumatic or problematic. It was a simple sadness that struck hard and fast. Before the moisture in my eyes could produce a tear, I snapped back into the reality of my minivan. As fast as it had come, it had gone away. I hadn’t had a moment like that in a long time. A moment where nothing exists but pure emotion. I laughed at myself and likened the experience to getting hit in the face with a basketball.
Then I came home and cooked the shit out of today. Mmmmm…
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