A couple of weeks ago, I travelled to London to sign my new job contract.
I was excited, ecstatic even, that everything was finally happening, and I couldn't wait to get everything sorted out so I could start my "new" life.
As I boarded the Underground to reach my destination, I realised that I was early. So early, that if I went directly to the Human Resources department, I would have to hang around for 45 minutes before my appointment.
I decided, with considerable and uncharacteristic spontaneity, to go to a local arcade that I knew at Embankment. This arcade is amazing. They have bumper cars, bowling, pool tables and a bar, as well as a host of my favourite arcade video games.
One thing you may or may not know about me, is that I used to be quite a talented Dance Dance Revolution player. It's true. I was brilliant. I did songs on expert mode just because I could. One time, I was doing one of my favourite tracks directly next to one of those "strong man" machines where you have to punch a big target as hard as you can. A man intent on impressing a group of impressionable girls who had just walked by smacked it as hard as he could and attempted to massage his bicep in a very macho way. Of course, the group of girls immediately flocked to me, strutting my stuff on the Dance Mat. It may have been a wasted victory, but it still tasted pretty sweet.
Anyway, knowing full well I hadn't done it in years, and also knowing that my fitness is not quite on par with what it had been in the past, I decided - for sentimental nostalgia - to have a go on the Dance Machine.
It was quite possibly the most humiliating and humbling display of crap I have ever performed. My legs just couldn't move like they used to. I was out of breath, I couldn't keep up, I was a total mess. By the time I had finished, I failed on my favourite song, and I could barely stand up. My knees kept buckling under me, I was covered in sweat, and getting air into my lungs felt like a challenge. I couldn't see.
The worst part is - I'm not exaggerating.
I left the arcade feeling deflated and sat my pathetic self down on the first bench I found. I didn't notice anyone around me, I couldn't focus on anything except breathing in and out, and keeping my eyes open. I honestly thought I was going to faint right there on that bench.
Although I wasn't paying attention to anyone else, someone had been paying attention to me. I had sat down next to an elderly Indian lady, and I can only imagine what she saw. A young man, sweating, pale, struggling to breathe as much as keep his eyes open, dressed in baggy clothes (I had wanted to travel comfortably) and wearing a massive trench coat. That's right, I was wearing the trench coat I got from Australia.
I must have looked like a homeless person.
And that is exactly how she treated me. As I tried to regain a level of sentient consciousness from the puddle I had turned myself into, I kept catching her looking at me with pitying eyes. After several minutes, she apparently couldn't take it anymore, and tapped me on the shoulder.
I looked over at her, to see her holding out a £5 note and gesturing that I should take it from her. The woman was literally giving me a handout.
I wasn't offended for even one moment. It was like a gift from a higher power. I didn't take the money. I kindly refused, laughed and explained that I wasn't in fact homeless, that it was very kind of her to offer, but it really wasn't necessary. I smiled politely and walked away.
But it was like - the kind of event that can restore your faith in humanity. A random act of kindness for a perceived need for no other reason than "you look like you really need this."
And all the anxiety, all the stress, and all the legitimate concerns about the path I am on, the choices I have made, and the life I am living - melted away. It was like a sign. I am being taken care of, it's all going to work out okay.
And I am forever grateful for that.
0 comments:
Post a Comment