I stood in front of the refrigerated case in the dairy aisle staring at the empty space where my favorite creamer should be. There was a greasy handprint on the glass door at eye level, possibly left by someone who propped it open to take the last pint of Guernsey Farms Half and Half. I tugged on the handle, felt a draft of cold and milky coolant blow through the open space, then stood on my toes and peered deep into the case for any pint-sized burgundy and white cartons hiding in the back. This was a first-world problem, my brand of choice was out of stock. There were other options, still, I closed the door slowly and stared into the case like a stubborn child, unwilling to make a different choice.
I’ll stop at another store later, I thought. Such spoilage and I don’t mean the dairy.
A young mom with a toddler on her hip waiting patiently a few feet behind me sounded like a happy little bird as she asked,
“Hi, do you mind if I just sneak past you?” then continued, “Oh rats, my favorite one isn’t here. Looks like I’ll try something new today!” She grabbed a colorful carton of creamer and tossed it into the cart with her other good choices. Her child giggled and she moved on, quite literally.
Rethinking things, I pulled open the glass door and lifted a pint of alternate creamer off the shelf, and set it gently next to my eggs. When did I become so inflexible? Have I always been this way? I order the same dish in favorite restaurants even though I know everything is delicious. And I once refused a cappuccino in Southern Italy offered by a lovely Italian man because I really preferred American coffee. (That was so rude, I feel terrible now.) I’m an absolute resolute! Rigidity can sneak up like vision loss, hardly noticed until you find yourself squinting at an eye chart.
I’m a creature of habit, ever more so these days after our collective long stretch at home living in isolation. Now things feel like they’re changing faster than I can keep up. I know adaptation is a survival skill, I'm just not very good at it. It’s not a terrible thing to want a creamer I’ve enjoyed stirring into my coffee each morning. And I believe in tradition, it’s beautiful, reassuring, and I honor continuity. But I wonder, what if adaptation became a place I felt most at home? What is comforting may not always be the most satisfying and I think openness to change may be more gratifying. It’s hard to evolve.
The young mom at the store who effortlessly made the creamer switch looked unfettered, relaxed, and at ease with modification, which I’m pretty sure took her a lifetime to cultivate. I became curious about how openness to change might improve my life. Not compromising principles, but rather, managing disappointment in a more productive way, something a very good therapist told me once I was not particularly good at. Managing disappointment well would certainly be a gift to myself and the people who love me. Resiliency is an act of love.
How do I unwind almost sixty years of tightly knotted internal twine? I could begin with one accommodation at a time and notice how it feels to be released from the prison of a self-imposed need for ALWAYS and SAMENESS.
I’m almost out of creamer again. When I stop by the market tomorrow I could reach into the dairy case for the most colorful carton and create a small space in my brain for bendy, malleable change, neurons transmitting impulses convincing me to be just the smallest bit more flexible and free.
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