Every once in a while, and it doesn't happen often, I encounter a woman who restores my love for the female sex. Today, her name was Monica.
She stood at the 292 bus stop in downtown SF. She reached about 5'11" and probably weighed 250lbs. Her face was soft and smiling. She had rosy apple cheeks, and deep, dark chocolate brown eyes that brought that animated, Disney princess sparkle to life.
She approached the kiosk and exhaled loudly. It wasn't a breath of exhaustion or annoyance (which is what one usually hears at bus stops) but rather one of contentment.
"I'm so happy to be here!!" she exclaimed, twirling around to face me.
It took a moment before I realized that she expected a response. I replied with what I hoped was a satisfactory and slightly uninviting "yep". I couldn't possibly fathom what she meant. As soon as I answered her I became acutely aware of a sharp odor of sweat and urine, and equally wary of the homeless addict muttering explicatives behind me.
Monica, however did not appear phased by the rank and pervasive smell and continued to bubble about her lovely day: " I just got back from a reunion for my culinary school...PLUS I had a quick 15 minute date with this guy I met on plentyoffish.com"
She was grinning ear to ear and seemed out of breath from excitement.
I inched a few steps closer to the edge of the curb. The stink wafted stronger under my nose. I looked back at Monica, and then turned my face into the stench. Braving the combined dangers of passing out from the wretched odor and being clipped by oncoming traffic were risks I was willing to take to stand just a few feet apart from this elated girl...Could she be mildly retarded? I mused.
The overt sign of my discomfort did not slow Monica's enthusiasm. She said "He was a really nice guy, you know? He bought me a Jamba Juice and we just talked and laughed...I think he's gonna be a great friend" and she actually sounded genuine. The girl looked down right positive that Harry Online-Dater would be an excellent addition to her group of friends. Again I searched her face for tell-tale signs of Down Syndrome.
She twiddled a curl of her hair between her fingers, stared off down Mission St, sighed and said "You know it's hard to find a companion...a romance..." I nodded an empty nod in her direction without turning to look at her.
"You must have a boyfriend" she added with conviction.
Slighty annoyed (whether it was at the innaccuracy or at the assumption I'm not quite sure) I gave my first full sentence response: "Nope, no boyfriend for me"
"Well that's odd. I think you're absolutely beautiful...You have really kind eyes"
Immediately my face softened and I ceased my dilligent search for any mental handicap. The girl was just genuinely happy, sweet and unperturbed by normal social cues.
"Thank you" I said, sincerity and apology seeping into my previously curt tone.
"Girls don't tell each other that stuff enough...we always think it...'You're beautiful' and stuff like that...but usually girls are mad about how great other girls are. Everybody's always hatin'. I'm just telling you what I see and what you probably don't hear enough"
I stood there, teetering on the edge of the curb from the strength of the smell, completely dumbfounded. I swayed a bit staring at the perfectly competent, rotund girl for a moment or two until I felt a slackness in my face that would probably make Monica momentarily question my mental capacity.
She then reached into her backpack and yanked out a book. It wasa fuscia self-help book about embracing one's femininity and sensuality. "Something something your inner goddess" was the title. She handed it to me and declared that it had changed her whole life perspective.
I opened it at random to a page that advocated fashioning a model of your vulva out of playdough and glitter and displaying in a prominent spot in your home, like your mantel. It seemed like a project that my friend A would attempt to do drunk, on her own out of sheer boredom after an especially compelling episode of Sex and the City...I could see her drunk on girlie cocktails in her Upper east side apartment giggling in front of her full length mirror.
Needless to say, the concept didn't appeal to my whiskey-shootin' glitterless self aside from the comic relief that I would get from the conversation I could generate with my newest mantelpiece addition.
I smiled and handed the book back to her. As I did, my bus pulled up. I put my hand out to shake hers and the moment I did, I felt a wave of positive energy surge up my arm into my chest. She smiled brightly and told me to have a great night.
I learned some great things from Monica that day:
1) I am beautiful
2) My vulva is something to be proud of
3) Being unprejudiced and flambouyantly kindhearted won't always kill me
I learned some things about myself:
1) I correlate genuine happiness and bliss with a diminished mental capacity
2) My cynicism is not an indication of intellectual superiority, but rather of a lazyness, fear or unwillingness to accept small tokens of happiness.
3) The world as I experience it will always be a reflection of what I percieve it to be. If I see the world as something to be battled against, it will always be a battle. If I consciously decide to look for the beauty in the frowning stranger at the bus stop, the world will be beautiful.
Thanks Monica.
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