"Hi, Sandy! How are you, today?" I continued steaming the shirt in front of me while my mind supplied the words I expected and normally received from her. She surprised me.
"Not so good, today. I am so pissed off and I don't know why," she said.
I turned and touched her arm and took a good look. She looked great, put together, sunny with her natural-blond, blue-eyed prettiness. When I was much younger, well not that much younger, really, I would have waded into her shit and tried to fix whatever was bothering her and consequently, me. I would have nervously asked about the whys, whens, hows of her discontent and filled in every blank with comfort-cliches, verbal band aids, and I'd have felt better. She would be no nearer to airing her grief or anger or any other corrosive feeling, but I'd feel better. I'm a fixer. Years ago I realized that I'm not a very good one and I've learned to just listen.
"I'm so glad to come to the store today. I had to get away from that house. All of those repairs, workers, and now there's a problem with the plumbing permits, or something crazy, and my husband lets it all go over his head. He acts like he doesn't understand and why should he when I jump in and take care of crap like this. " She looked down, aware that she'd revealed more than she wanted to and when she looked up at me, she smiled.
"Feels good to get away and just vent, you know?" she murmured.
We laughed and shared the common bond or bondage of fixers everywhere and felt the rare relief of losing control, of letting the mask slip, of being flawed humans living on a flawed but wonderful planet.
