Love Letters from Heather

To the woman I yelled at in the Zehrs parking lot two weeks ago.

You are what common vernacular often refers to as a “life lesson.” You irritated me the second I walked in the grocery store behind you, seeing your mask tucked neatly below your nose. It was a half-effort at best. I snarled and whispered, “Look, she doesn’t have that on her face, really.”

The day would have unfolded much differently if you didn’t keep showing up during my shopping experience. Then, when I spotted you in the lineup at the in-store wine shop, the mask gone from barely holding on to letting go all together. I overheard staff ask for your compliance, and you told then (and everyone around you), “Canada is a communist country now.” And simply kept the mask off your face.

You continued your tirade as I walked out behind you. “It’s just a flu. It’s just a FLU, people.”

What happened next was like a scene from a movie, when the main character snaps, loses their mind, and fights back against the enemy with mighty valour. Except, in my case, it was more like a tired, middle-aged woman looking for a reason to vent…and vent I did.

I am not proud of what happened next, although, truth be told it felt all kinds of good to let go. The only other people to have witnessed such a slew of fury from me in the past are those who dare call my cell phone, asking if I want my ducts cleans.

I used an expletive. Well, in actuality, I screamed a profanity at you. At the top of my lungs. Rage unleashed. People all over the large parking lot froze, turning towards me in utter terror like rabbits in the woods who suddenly hear a wolf howl—or like a deer who spots the headlights. Except the couple at the other entrance. I heard a mighty laugh and the guy yelling back “Yeeeah” enthusiastically matching my own force and fervour.

We have had an outbreak in one of our city’s long-term care facilities, and it has left a train of casualties, the tracks of the ramifications not yet fully discovered.

“Just a flu? My neighbour just lost her father to this…” I started but stopped, realizing this was helping no one in particular, and probably only giving credence to the theories in your own mind.

Tears stung my eyes, and I became painfully aware of all the people looking at me and realized the extent to which I had snapped. I kept calling you names under my breath all the way to the car. “You stupid, arrogant…Communist Canada? Do you even know how lucky you are to live here? I’ll show YOU communist. What a disrespectful piece of poo…” I got to our car, slung the groceries in the back seat, climbed in the front, watched (well, maybe glared at is more accurate) you wheel your cart to your vehicle, then burst into a full-blown cathartic ugly cry.

The beast was unleashed. Every crazy emotion from these uncertain times now had permission to express itself, leaving me a tired puddle.

So why would I write you (of all people) a love letter? Well, although it was an intense and very unpleasant experience for me (and I am pretty sure I don’t like you), I am grateful for it nonetheless. There is beauty in the broken, if you take the time to look closely enough.

First, I want to thank you for giving me permission to release my emotions. You were the excuse I needed. Second, I appreciate that you taught me that my tolerance and temper both need some serious attention. You exposed the dark, ugly parts within me. Third, thank you for exemplifying what I never want to become.

Life is a paradox. Without suffering, there would be no need for compassion. Without pain, there would be no growth. Without need, helpers would not be necessary. Our existence is duplicitous. In order to know what you want to aspire to be, it is sometimes helpful to see what that DOESN’T look like.

And, to me, being rude to staff, offering unconstructive criticism (instead of constructive suggestions) on how to improve our country, being anything but humble and kind, is not a good look, a look I also wear as well. We aren’t that different. I see the irony. Exhibit A: Zehrs parking lot.

I can’t go as far as to apologize for what I did. Not yet, anyway. However, I will say that I could have handled it better…or ignored you. I chose not to and discovered our similarities in quick order.

When I got home, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello,” I said.

“Hello, Ma’am, this is so-and-so from this-and-that, and we have a special on to get your ducts cleaned.”

A smile crept across my face and I almost chuckled, nodding knowingly to myself and to the Universe. I didn’t hang up. I didn’t scream at them to put me on a no-call list. I didn’t go into a tirade, asking how they got my unlisted number.

Instead, I said, “No thank you. Have a great day.” Click.

Zehrs parking lot lady, you cleaned my dirty mirror so I could see myself a little more clearly. THAT is why I love you.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Crazy Un-Masked Lady,

Heather

PS. If through some great miracle you read this, might I suggest you book your next vacation to Syria, South Sudan, or possibly Yemen to spend some quality time away from horrible Canada.