Living Breathing Stories

I saw this old lady get on the Metro today. Any other day and I never would have stood a chance at noticing her. Today was a holiday for most people though, so the Metro crowd was relatively sparse. Her outfit had an interesting contrast. The no-longer-taut skin of her face rested just above a luxurious black fur coat. Just above her face rested a sort of vaguely baseball inspired bright blue nylon cap. The sort of cap you might buy in Branson and distractedly doff before driving 15 under the speed limit while on your way to an early dinner with your bridge club at Denny’s in Florida. I suppose that at 7:30 in the morning this combination of class and trash just made for an interesting juxtaposition. Or perhaps I’m just easily bemused.

As I sat watching her slight reflection in the window next to me (I couldn’t stare directly at the lady who had by now sat down right in front of me now could I?) she pulled out a makeup compact and two tubes of lipstick. I watched as she proceeded to make herself up. I watched as she removed her hat and coiffed her hair. I watched as she carefully applied one tube of lipstick then another. I watched as she applied some powder to her cheeks. I watched as she carefully re-coiffed her hair then replaced the blue nylon hat.

This was all further compounded by the fact that as I watched her I couldn’t help but wonder about who this person was. I thought about how many times her hands had performed the same routine. I wondered about what some of those occasions had been that she had gotten all dressed up for. A blind date? A wedding? A formal with crystal chandeliers? A birthday party? A church service? A funeral? I wanted to know her story.

I’m surrounded by all these people who have lived, loved, suffered. Yet when I’m wanting a story I grab a book. There are so many stories living and breathing all around me. Every day I walk by hundreds of them. They sit next to me in traffic and stand shoulder to shoulder with me on the Metro, these stories. How many of them have fascinating things they could tell me. Surely each one would have amazing tales of suffering, pain, joy and comedy. Yet each day I am guilty of dismissing them en-mass, judging them by their covers.