If you’ve moseyed on over here during this A to Z Challenge, it’s possible you’ve picked up on the very unguarded non-secret that I’m a thinker. A constant thinker. A the-wheels-are-always-turning thinker.
I have a lot of thoughts.
Which isn’t a bad thing for a writer; you pick up on one small detail, and suddenly you’re off to the races. Or the computer. I mean who could write at races? I assume they’re pretty loud, what with horses and a crowds and fortunes being lost and all.
And see? Now I’m thinking about who that person would be writing, at all places, the racetrack.
It happened yesterday, too. I was in an elevator with a small cart people in the city have, once referred to as “an old lady cart,” but seriously, “old ladies” have them because they’re smart and realize carrying stuff is for suckers.
Anyway, a guy with a larger cart tried to push into the elevator without a word to me. Just started pulling it in though there wasn’t room. He glared at me with bland eyes, slight malice in the corners, behind a reflective wall glasses as I said, “Hey, let me move this, it’s not going to fit.”
I did, and he pulled the cart in, still saying nothing, and he was followed by a young woman with her hair in a messy knot, a lamp in each hand. I took a quick look from his stern face and short gray hair to her youthful one and figured her dad was helping her move.
“Thanks,” she said, “for making room.”
“Moving?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said. Then she clarified. “We,” she pointed the lamp from the grump to her and back to the grump, “just got married. And so we’re moving.”
I hoped my face stayed in the same position it had been. “Oh, congratulations,” I said. I hoped it sounded enthusiastic. It didn’t feel enthusiastic.
Because it took mere seconds for my brain to observe them shifting the items into a car to get from that moment to a Dateline special. Always thinking.
The in-motion mind is the proverbial blessing/curse, as I’m sure so many of you also can attest. At least, I think so.
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