Be a Stranger

Tonight I had the privilege of dinner and a movie with a dear friend of mine. Despite the fact that we both live in the Phoenix Metro Area, she was in my wedding, and I watched her first daughter be born ... I RARELY see her. Not only do I not see her, but we barely even get to speak. It is an absolute shame, the world moves too fast -- but tonight, we made a date and kept it.

We met at the usual spot; California Pizza Kitchen. Ate the usual meal; Waldorf Chicken Salad (a salad that makes me not feel like I'm missing out on the pizza). Talked the usual talk; she listened as I blah blah blahed my way through. You know, typical girls' night out.

However, in a moment when I stopped to take a breath (or more likely a bite), she said something that I pondered the whole drive home ... Actually, it's what's keeping me up tonight, when in fact I should be sleeping. What she said reminded me of the day I decided to move to California.

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It was very early December of 2006. I had been in Phoenix (Scottsdale actually) for about two and a half months and I had had enough. Work wasn't what I was hoping it would be, I hadn't met any people I particularly cared for, and the ONE person I DID meet who I THOUGHT I cared for, turned out to have a live-in girlfriend (and all that time I thought he liked hanging out at my place because of my awesome futon). Yep, two and a half months were enough for me.

On a Saturday morning I made my decision. I had been out the night before with the people I didn't particularly care for and woke up with the kind of headache that would make anyone want to leave town. I packed a bag, grabbed my laptop, and prepared to hit the road -- the 10 west as a matter of fact; straight to Los Angeles. I remember just as I was about to close the door on the apartment I passed the mirror that hung on the wall.

It was a mirror I bought at IKEA the day I moved to Arizona because I loved it -- actually, I loved what I SAW when I looked into it. When I looked in that mirror that day at IKEA, I saw hope. Hope and excitement in my own reflection.

However, the face in the mirror on THIS day did NOT look hopeful; it was ragged, worn and tired. The hair was matted and the eyes were lonely. This face had had enough.

It was not my best day.

I walked down to my car, in my pajamas more or less, and drove down the street to the first gas station. I pulled up to a pump and started to fill up. I remember struggling with the key pad, trying to figure out why it needed SO MUCH information just to give me a little gas. I remember the handle kept clicking off when I tried to set it on autofill. I remember being so anxious just to get out of Arizona and so frustrated that this gas station was making it SO impossible.

And then someone pulled up along side of me and rolled down his window.

Oh no. I bet my tires are low. It was always OTHER people pointing out that my tires were low.

However, the man behind the wheel said nothing about my tires... instead he said in a voice that was not wanting or in the least bit suggestive,

"You know, you are really beautiful."

My jaw dropped and my hand slipped from the handle (so the gas immediately stopped pumping). I didn't know what to say. This was the last thing I had ever expected anyone in Arizona to say to me on this particular Saturday, or on ANY Saturday in Arizona.

Thank you? I started to respond... but he just waved, as if it were nothing, and drove off.

I never saw him again.

But I never forgot him.

I never moved to California. I went out there until Tuesday and then I decided it was time to "come home." When I walked into my apartment after that long drive, I looked in the mirror that hung on the wall and said to myself, "You know, you are really beautiful."

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Now WHAT you might ask could my friend have said at dinner tonight that would make me remember that day, those events? Well, it was this:

I told her her eyebrows looked nice.

That is something completely normal to say to a friend ... but when I told my dear friend this over dinner tonight, she proceeded to tell me this story:

She was driving through the drive through at McDonalds, something she didn't usually do, but it was just one of THOSE DAYS where the ONLY thing that seems right with the world is McDonalds drive thru. As she pulled up to the first window to pay, she of course couldn't find the cash she had brought with her. She was digging under her legs, in between the seats, under the floormat, in the glovebox, all with growing frustration and with her movements becoming more spastic and unruly. She finally found the it stuffed in her sock. She yanked out the cash and thrust it at the girl in the window, panting.

The girl froze. She looked at my friend intently. Oh no, she's probably mad the cash is sweaty, thought my friend. It was at that moment the McDonalds drive thru window cash taker girl said:

"I love your eyebrows."

My friend paused, let out a sigh of relief, smiled and thanked the stranger for making her day.

Years later, at CPK, my friend could remember the day a stranger liked her eyebrows.

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In a world where friends have to book quality time a week in advance, where phone calls are replaced with text messages and texts are replaced with tweets, it seems the "stranger" carries a stronger responsibility. Just as I remembered the stranger at the gas station, she remembered the stranger at the McDonalds drive thru, I would venture to say we aren't the only to people who remember the strangers that made our day.

Though the phrase random acts of kindness has, over the years, become cliche; the recipients of those acts, I believe, have become no less grateful, especially since true moments of genuine kindness are so rare. This evening on my drive home, I thought of all the many interactions I must have had in my life - and how interesting it was, that one I remember so vividly is one I never saw coming and would never see again.

So, tonight I challenge you this. If the opportunity arises, be the kind stranger to make someone's day. Be the kind stranger people will tell stories about years later, as they enjoy a long-overdue night out with a friend.