Today, sitting outside the Cracker Barrel in Bellmead, Texas, a thought occurred to me: You don’t get many perfect breezes in this neck of the woods. Nevertheless, there it was. The perfect breeze. Not too strong, not too weak, not too cool–just absolutely, well, perfect.
I’m not one to suffer waits lightly, but in this instance I was quite happy to sit and wait to the hostess’ heart’s content. And then Mr. and Mrs. Blabbington Bitchy-Pants sat down across the patio from me, and my perfect moment vanished into thin air. “This,” proclaimed Mr. B., “is why I don’t come here. There’s always too many people.” “Yes,” responded his wife. “There’s a lot of folks here.” And so on and so forth, until they were called (well before the promised time had lapsed, I might add, and also in much better time than my own) and made their bitter way into the restaurant.
I started to judge these folks (quietly, and in my mind, of course), but I found myself hindered by a little nagging voice that said to me: “You have seen Mr. and Mrs. Blabbington Bitchy-Pants, and they are you.”
What the heck? Am I mistaken, or am I being judged by my own inner monologue?
How many times had I been the one to ruin another’s idyll with my general lack of patience and self-centered misdirection? More importantly, how many prefect breezes had I missed because I chose to focus on what was not ideal instead of appreciating what was? Perhaps there are more perfect breezes in Texas than my ego allows me to notice.
But this one, I noticed…