Messing up a perfectly good conversation in one easy step

I’m contacting someone who used to study where I used to work. We were friendly with each other and hung out several times. She’s bright and lovely to talk to and happens to know a lot about a topic that interests me.

I text her to catch up.

She responds right away, asking questions of her own.

I follow up and also ask to talk on the phone, mentioning questions about said topic.

She responds right away, happy to talk.

I follow up and suggest some times.

And then, even though she’s already agreed to talk to me, even though there’s a purely friendly basis for all of this, I say,

“I don’t think it should take more than 15-20 minutes of your time.”

…

Immediately, I become a scammer. A swindler. A door-to-door vacuum, insurance, religion, or girl scout cookie salesperson. A fundraiser for a politician or for a charity you’ve never heard of… that’s probably not a charity at all. A signature-collector outside the grocery store. A car warranty expiration notice-giver in your voicemail. A person who wants something that feels utterly one-sided: your time, your attention, your money, in exchange for—potentially—no longer asking for your time, your attention, your money.

Even though that’s not the kind of exchange I’m looking for at all.

…

Crickets.

Damn it.

Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Wisdom from the Sage of the Water Store

What is a water store?

My friend’s feeling icky and flu-ish and the only thing she wants help with is refilling her 5-gallon water jugs.

So I discover there’s a thing called a water store. (Which my text editor is marking as a grammatical error. Does that mean it’s not linked to my GPS? I thought you all talk to each other.)

After seventeen questions more than appropriate for a place with exactly three types of spouts to choose from (the bottle washer, the normal water spout, and something that remains mysterious, even after all those questions), I lug two very full water bottles onto a cart retired from a respectable career transporting AV equipment across the local middle school, and I approach the register.

The cashier is a man with hair. So much hair. Hair down to below his chest, hair worn loose and curly, hair that is gray with some black and white mixed in.

“What are you up to?” he says.

“Just trying to help a friend. What are you up to?”

Perched on a stool, he tilts up his chin, considering.

“Drinking water,” he says.

“Eating pumpkin seeds,” he continues. And then:

“Taking it one gallon at a time.”

Do we care—or even notice—if someone says they’re taking it “one day at a time?”

But if, instead, we think about what a day means to us and talk about that?

Then, we form a bond with other people. We plant our words and ideas in their heads. We have a chance to affect how they think feel, and act.

Or maybe we just give them a two-minute anecdote to share with a handful of other people. (Hi!)

As for me? I’m trying to take it one early bedtime at a time. Or, well… starting tomorrow.

Send me emails like this, Ophira!

When you cut me off

I’m driving. The road is open in front of me.

You’re stopped across from me, waiting to turn left across my lane.

There are no stop signs. There is no light.

I drive.

You sit there, in your car, signaling your impending left turn.

And then, just as I pass the point at which it’s no longer safe for you to turn in front of me—

You turn. In front of me.

You cut me off.

And I just want to know:

Why?

Were you distracted? Oblivious? Thirsty for adrenaline?

Or did someone wrong you today?

Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Interactions at intersections

I’m on a main street, driving straight. You’re on a side street ahead of me, at the intersection with the main street. You want to turn right to go where I’m going, or maybe you want to cross my lanes and turn left, or maybe you want to go straight through, cross the intersection, and stay on the side street.

There’s traffic and a red light coming up. If I stop now, I can let you through. Or I can keep going and block you.

Maybe I keep going because I don’t realize how little space will be left for you. Maybe I’m just thinking about other things. Maybe I stop far enough in advance to give you space to decide what to do next.

Does the person in the other lane stop? Is there room for you to turn right or left or cross the intersection?

Will you acknowledge any of us before you go? As you go? After you go? What about if I (oops) block you?

Will we smile at each other? Will we raise our hands, display our palms in a “thank you” and “I acknowledge your thank you”? Will we flick each other off? Will we slam our hands on the steering wheel because of the other person’s audacity to ignore our needs, whether or not we were in their line of sight? Will we realize we recognize each other and wave excitedly? Or will we note for the future to beware of drivers with the other person’s… style?

Today, this is what happens:

I stop far enough in advance to give you the space you need to go where you want to go. The person in the next lane stops, too. There’s room for you. You acknowledge us as you pass with a thank you palm, a nod, a small smile.

Will we see each other again?

Unlikely.

But this happy little exchange? It makes me grateful for traffic.

And who can ask for more than that?

Send me emails like this, Ophira!