I navigate my shopping cart to a halt beside the tortilla chips. Today I’m choosy and I specifically search for On The Border brand. The Fiesta Dippin’ chips style is in easy grasp.
I snag two bags, tumbling them among other assorted groceries in my cart. I’d really prefer to have the Cafe style as well. They hover two shelves above my head and are quite out of fingertip reach for my five-foot-one frame.
I sigh.
I’m not defeated yet. Thirtyish years at this height have taught a few tricks.
I balance precariously on the frame of my cart. Will a few extra inches add the secret sauce ingredient? It doesn’t. The bags are too far back.
Other, TALLER, shoppers have already snatched the reachable ones.
I try again. Could the bottom shelf leverage my foot and achieve the extra boost I need? Still no dice. The chips recline in placid rows above my head, undisturbed, unperturbed, untouched. Perhaps I should simply add a third bag of Fiesta Dippin’ style. I don’t want to settle though. I have my heart set on the crunchy shape and size of Cafe style. Besides, my good farmer man especially likes these.
Frustration simmers in my gut. My limitations daily irritate me.
From lack of height to lack of muscle to lack of know-how to lack of ability to lack of precision to lack of decision to lack of accomplishment to lack of meaning to lack of patience to lack of selflessness to lack of contentment.
One more attempt.
I try to prod from underneath. If my fingers could catch the bag edge through the shelf bars perhaps I could scooch them close enough. It’s not happening. I don’t have the height or reach required.
At the aisle end, an older gentleman notices my plight.
“Would you like me to get the chips for you?” He makes the kind offer.
“Sure!” I’m grateful for assistance.
Abashed, too.
My inner core recoils at the idea of a scene caused, deemed a bother, overly noticed. Everything within me avoids seen-ness. Much energy in my life has been used to circumvent the need to take up space in the world. This disconcertion finds me semi-apologizing for my lack of height.
“If I had a dollar for every time I’ve wished I was a tad bit taller, I’d be rich.” I smile. Make the joke.
My chip rescuer easily plucks the Cafe style bag. He hands me my sought-for chips.
Then, he hands me affirmation.
“You’re exactly the right height for who you’re made to be.” He smiles.
I laugh, in part to his response. It’s unexpected.
My expectation cast him chuckling at my wish, possibly a light-hearted reply.
“Thank-you.” My answer holds a double meaning.
My mind races words, but I don’t formulate a response. We wish each other a good day. He retraces the steps he made for his Good Samaritan deed. Rescue to a short, seen/scene-avoidant shopper is somewhat synonymous to lying beside the road stripped and beaten.
Doubtful, I’ll cross paths with him again. His face is blurry in my remembrance. But his words and actions are not. Our interaction happened in under five minutes. But for me, the impact stretched much further.
Sometimes the breath of life and kindness and encouragement finds us in the Walmart aisle between On the Border and Nutty Bars.
Sometimes we don’t realize we need an unexpected rescue from the unspoken resident limitations in our heads.
Sometimes what we want is just out of reach because the helping hand required is actually what we need.
With a side of Cafe style chips and queso.
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