I zipped over to Safeway tonight to replenish the milk supply for my morning hot cocoa; in, out, home, was the plan.
There was a guy with some gray in his hair and a basket on his arm who approached the checkout line, hesitated, stepped away to look over at something else just a moment and started to step back just as I was right there now and in his way.
Hey. I was pushing a cart, he was holding his groceries with a two-pieced metal handle pulling heavily against his arm. In my fatigue-centric world, he wins; I offered him to go ahead of me. I was in no hurry.
There was the polite, You go ahead. No, you go ahead.
Alright then, so I did.
And turned and complimented him on his sweater to be nice back.
“It’s Irish,” he told me proudly. (I wasn’t surprised. It was also machine-knit, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.)
“I made one for my husband like that, only, there are no patterns as big as he is so I had to design my own since he’s 6’8″.”
Oh my. That opened the door. The Voice of Authority proceeded to tell me that sure I could, just go to a store where they sell yarn, they have all the patterns.
“Yes, but not that big.” I smiled sweetly, letting him in on the laugh. (Right?)
He insisted there are no new patterns in knitting, just rehashes of what’s already been out there. Those Irish, now, each town had their own. He tried to convince me that they might have been originators but nobody else could be, not now, it’s all Been Done.
I told him I design some of the patterns in those stores (thinking of my book)… (Again with the smile.)
He seemed offended. No no no little girl, is how he came across as he made clear his stance that such hubris on my part was not to be tolerated.
I didn’t argue with him, just let him go on, my eye contact level fading away. My transaction soon give me a graceful way out–slide your card here–then I turned, smiled, and bid him a good evening.
Home. Put the milk away. Sat down in the family room. I double-checked the cabled pattern lineup I was starting for the cap of the hat whose braided brim I’d made during my lupus group meeting today, a hat that will be identical to no other on earth when I get done–
–and looked across the room at my piano.
Seven and a half octaves. They’re all there. All those keys were invented years ago. You couldn’t possibly design anything new with them, it’s this key and on up through that one, one right after another, it’s all already been done.
(Ed. to add: I felt sorry for the guy for so needing to dominate that he wrecked a perfectly pleasant conversation. So as I drove home in the dark, I said a prayer for him: easy to do, since I don’t ever have to see him again, and the effort certainly couldn’t hurt him and did help me. Who knows. Maybe the Universe will teach him a little kindness from the encounter. I can hope.)