I complained today, as I sat at the edge of my bed, waiting for the numbers on the alarm clock to sober up and straighten out. It was a blurry 5:12 in the morning on Saturday. I rubbed my eyes and cursed under my breath. I complained about having to wake up, about having to work early on a Saturday morning and about my life in general.
I complained while at work, as I sat and listened to my co-worker behind me express himself with words that would make your mother blush. I complained about his complaining.
When my shift was over, I complained about the traffic that was standing in the way of me getting to my pizza. I should have been happy that work was over, I should have been happy that I was on my way to get pizza, I should have been happy just to feel the sunshine on my face and the cold breeze blowing through a typically hot town.
I rolled my car into the gas station next to Straw Hat pizza, when I realized that the police had roped off the entrance of Straw Hat with yellow tape.
The man that took my order over the phone never mentioned that there was an issue and the restaurant was closed, so I approached one of the police officers outside.
"I ordered a pizza, is it ok to go inside?"
"Yes, but we are asking everyone to exit through the back door. We had a gentleman pass away in the parking lot and we're trying to handle this in a way to allow him some dignity." He responded as he lifted the yellow tape to allow me passage.
I could see the outline of a body laying underneath the police blanket and I instantly felt my heart sink. I complained today. I complained all morning about nothing. I was complaining about my life, while this man was losing his.
This man appeared to be at the restaurant by himself. There was no other person in the parking lot, crying over the loss of this mans life. I had wondered if he was reassured that he was loved today before leaving the house. If he was happy or sad. Was he content with life? Or had he complained all morning about dumb stuff ?
It's hard to appreciate every hour or minute of your life, until you realize that you can lose it. I complained today, I complained about nothing at all and the idea that it could end unexpectedly with not having really enjoyed any part of the morning, bothered me. I would hate for everything to come to an end after being unnecessarily irritated that I arrived at my destination two seconds later than I wanted to because some " idiot," in a green Honda cut me off and drove 2 mph slower than I wanted him to.
I don't want this to sound like some insincere lecture, about how you should be grateful for every minute of your life; like some kind of cliche, presented as "profound wisdom," forwarded via e-mail with some chain-mail type of note on the bottom instructing you to pass this on or you'll have a year of bad luck. Shit gets tough and it's hard to love every thing about what goes on in your world every day.
Really, I just can't seem to let it go. I've had lingering anxiety about this and I can't figure out why. What I do know is, I was consumed with the idea that this man left his house, just to get pizza without any idea that he was coming to the end of his minutes. I was bothered by that thought, but talked myself out of posting this. Then hours later I saw this section from the novel I started reading:
