Single-Minded (and -Eyed) Focus

This morning, I was worried.  It looked like a repeat of yesterday morning, minus the head chock full of phlegm and the fever--Trax was running late, which would in turn make me late for catching my bus, causing me to run the block from the library to the bus stop only to see my bus pulling away from the curb.  At times like that, I swear I can feel someone laughing at me.

 

Anyway, as I boarded the train, I was praying as fervently as a soul can about a bus--that my bus would somehow be delayed, that I could make it safely onto the on-time-to-work bus if I just hurried enough.  I admit it right now--I was in a hurry, and I don't look anywhere but straight ahead when I'm rushing.

 

I was so focused, indeed, I didn't notice someone stumble over my foot; indeed, I would have been completely unaware except that when I'd reached the crosswalk, a woman with an eye patch covering her left eye came up to me and said, "If you're going to trip me, the least you can do is tell me you're sorry.  I'm blind in one eye."

 

I looked that woman square in the face and snapped, "So am I."

 

"Well, then," she said, "Perhaps you should have been looking with your good eye."

 

She was saved from any number of vicious retorts by a walk signal--we were, thankfully, walking in opposite directions.  I scurried on my way, mulling over everything I could have said: "How long have you been blind?" "Were you looking with your good eye?"

 

I learned something from this exchange.  If I had actually felt her tripping on me, I would have stopped and said "Excuse me" at the very least.  But because I was so busy, I didn't notice.  And she didn't give me the benefit of the doubt, which irked me.  Normally, when I trip over people, I just assume they didn't notice and that they're in a hurry.

 

After all, everybody has their White Rabbit moments.

 

The admonishment that maybe I should have been looking with my good eye, while rude, also made me think.  In order for me to compensate for the utter void on my right side, I would have to walk through life with my head literally turned 45 degrees to my right.  Turning my head like that would, in turn, cause me to run into a host of things I actually could have seen on my left side.

 

It's a lose-lose.  If I try to accommodate the idea someone else has of where I should be looking, I only hurt more people.  And it's completely unintentional.  Huh.  There might be a good parable in here somewhere . . .

 

I also learned just how much of a quid pro quo reacter I am (Or should that be reactor?  It looks like I'm talking science or something when spelled with the 'o' . . .).  The idea of quid pro quo defines many of my interactions: in conversation I tend to match wit for wit, sarcasm for sarcasm, pun for pun; in written communication, I match letter for letter and e-mail for e-mail.  It's a concept well-learned and well-taught in my family, in the form of "Don't you dare dish it if you can't take it."

 

But it bothered me that in this instance, I found myself reacting to her anger and annoyance with anger and annoyance.  And I've been mulling about the incident all day.  Not because I'm angry with her, although I do think she could have been far less combative.

 

No, I'm angry with me.  I know better.  And I know I know better.  Maybe she doesn't.