Sometimes I get envious of the lady that works in the Doughnut Shop around the corner from my house. I know that sounds strange, but I think about her sometimes when I'm having a particularly hairy day.
She wakes up at 3:30 am and goes to the shop in the quiet of early morning. In the still and dark, she turns on the television in the doughnut shop and listens to the news while she prepares a pot of coffee. The first cup will be for her, the rest for the throngs of customers who flock to enjoy the delectables which she will begin to prepare at this early hour. She takes most responsibility for the apple and cherry turnovers. They are not easy, but she has perfected her technique, and has turned so many over that she barely even notices that she's doing it anymore. Like breathing she completes this task without ever stopping to think about it. Her daily variety comes in the form of her customers. She's never sure exactly who will come through the door of the shop. There are regulars, to be sure, and they will certainly pick the conversation up where they left it yesterday. But there are new people, too. Elderly people out for their morning walk, mom's with their babes in strollers stopping for a treat, teenagers skipping school in favor of one of her famous raised glazed doughnuts. She greets everyone with a smile, like they are her friend. At noon, she will leave for the day and run a couple of errands before she returns to her home, she will hunker down to "watch her stories" on TV, prepare a small dinner just for her, and then hit the hay at 7:00 pm sharp so she can wake up and do it all over again.
Each day for her is almost the same as the day before. Each day, she goes the same direction she has been going for the past dozen years, and she has virtually no complaints.
Some days this sounds nice to me.
Except that I know that a few years ago, she lost her beloved husband and companion six months after a diagnosis of stomach cancer. He went so quickly, and left her with such a huge hole in her heart. He was young. Just 62 years old. She says she misses him most when she prepares that small dinner, just for her.
Everybody has stuff. We are all a little broken, but we are all trying our best. When I'm feeling really stressed, and pulled in a million directions, and down in the mouth about the challenges I've faced, I think about my friend at the doughnut shop, how I sometimes think her life sounds pretty nice, and remember that she once told me that she was a smidgen envious of my life.
