Over the New Year trip home, H. and I stopped by one of my favorite stores, Farm King, to search out some new jeans. My current selection having been torn past decency due to chores and riding or ill fitting* and tight around my thighs (ill fitting in my eyes, proper fitting in most others). I dislike tight or form fitting clothing. The irony of which isn't lost on me, seeing how much time I spend in tight, form fitting cycling clothing. And because of all that time spent in cycling clothes, my daily wardrobe suffers due to being cheap and budgeting most of the clothing budget to cycling gear over new jeans. But there comes a time when one must shop.
While trying to find jeans that felt as comfortable and soft as $80 jeans in the $25 jean section, my mind flashed back to an old friend I met in college. His name is John and we were in many of the same communications and film courses together. Like myself, John was the first in his family to go off to college. Rural Illinois is full of small towns with low wages and John's family worked hard to scrape by and help put him through school. As such, he didn't have much. I remember giving him some of my 3/4 video tapes and left over film to help him with course requirements. I had a job on campus that allowed me access to such items at a discount. I even hired him for a few voice overs for CD-roms I was producing as he had the epitome of a broadcast voice, but I digress.
What stuck out to me, aside from his never ending smile and exuberance for each new day, was that his dorm room could be packed into a single backpack. His entire wardrobe consisted of two base outfits. A pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt. He had an additional wool sweater, a jacket, and a winter coat, but the base outfits were what stood out most. In a word, spartan.
I never felt sorry for him. In fact, quite the opposite, I admired him. He was genuine and gentle, quiet and polite. I still can well up with rage remembering the day in the cafeteria when a dorm floor friend turned to John and started ridiculing him for his clothes. I was embarrassed, disgusted, ashamed and sat passive way longer than I should have. Tom was from Chicago, son of a cop, quick to temper, quicker to fight, and way into being a tough guy. It didn't matter, you can make fun of me but not my friends (that's my job), so I snapped back with some witty retort that verbally castrated Tom at the table and about got my ass kicked in. Luckily others at the table were just as appalled (or perhaps just embarrassed) at Tom's behavior to prevent fisticuffs (though apparently not enough to have spoken up in defense of John). Tom did wander back to the dorm one night drunk and landed a few blows, the bruises and humiliation well worth sticking up for John.
I bring up this story for a reason, small gestures and acknowledgments can carry great weight. They can lift people or destroy them. Often times when we don't even realize it. I've had a few recently that opened my eyes.
The
flip side to that is wishing I'd done something differently back when.
Whether it's taking a moment to just tell someone I appreciated them,
been a better friend, invited them out for dinner or
movie, or just taken the time to call. Life is funny. So many pressures and no real user guide. Walking
the line of finding friends, being friends all while trying to find out
what path you are destined to walk to provide a life for yourself all while attempting to maintain a job and balancing responsibilities and dreams.
Daunting. My mind drowns in these thoughts daily.
Years and years ago a friend and I were kicking around an old musty smelling downtown smallville antique mall over winter break. We were looking at shelves and shelves of old photos of people mostly long gone when she said "It's not that I want to be remembered, I just don't want to be forgotten." Poignant and it has stuck with me ever since. Also a driver for why I've always been such a shutterbug. To not forget.
I ride to escape myself. The cloud of thoughts that collect, gather, and swarm my brain begin to blow off and stretch out behind like streams of steam behind an engine. Clarity sometimes. Focus other times. Things seem simple again like having two sets of clothes, black and white. My mind quiets and I can reflect back and remember.
Oh, and back to the jeans. I ended up getting two pair and H. also got two pair. We washed them when we got back to TN and one morning while getting ready for work I dug out a new pair to wear. I pulled them on and they felt tighter than before. H., did you dry these on high heat? Dammit, my new jeans, wasted. I almost lost it, but went to grab my other pair to see if they'd shrunk too. It was then, and only then that I realized I was wearing H.'s pants. D'oh! Story of my life.
