The people sitting across from me come from all over the world: the Philippines, Morocco, France, Ukraine, Bulgaria, Mali, the Ivory Coast, Mexico, Argentina, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Romania, Rwanda…
Some are shy and reserved some friendly and at ease. Their skin comes in every possible shade. The children stare at me unblinkingly, and then whisper mysteriously in the parents' ears, in a language that means nothing to me.
I glance discreetly at the book that this young, unshaven man with the stern glasses is reading: Umberto Ecco.
Once in a while, I get a rosy-cheeked, blond hair, blue-eyed baby blowing happy bubbles, that bears a familiar French-Canadian name. She's the exception; most names are exotic and unfamiliar.
Boys will be boys, and the guys have a code to signal the presence of a "chick". A "chick" is young or not so young and has that immaterial je-ne-sais-quoi that is instantly recognizable to the male sex. (The immaterial je-ne-sais-quoi quite often being a very generous and very real frontal endowment, of course.) If I get the "chick", I'm suddenly surrounded by widely grinning colleagues who "just happen" to have something to do at my desk. The chicks are no fools and usually enjoy the attention.
Strictly in the name of fairness and equality, I demanded a code that will signal when a "good-looking guy" comes in. But in truth, it won't happen often. The guys that come in may be interesting, intelligent or have fascinating life stories…or not. But one thing they ain't is good looking.
There is not much outlet for my sense of humor. Circumstances are just not favorable, so I'm uncharacteristically serious. I miss the laughter and irreverence that usually punctuate my life.
The time you take to look inside and find why you miss the laughter so much can sometimes be disturbing. Whatever the revelation and however long it takes to be illuminated by it, in my experience, it is always time well spent. And then the sun rises.
ReplyDeleteCrap. I'm turning into Dr. Phil.