It’s the day before my birthday and it’s cold in Coosa County, Alabama. Lake Martin never looked so good.
You won’t care about this, but fifteen years ago I didn’t know my purpose on this planet. Today, I’m middle-aged, and I still don’t know—only, now I have a bad back.
This morning, I ate breakfast at Cracker Barrel. Cracker Barrel, it should be noted, doesn’t have the greatest biscuits, but in a pinch they’ll keep you alive.
An old woman and her daughter sat at the table beside mine. The woman was in a wheelchair, with messy hair. And talkative.
“That man needs to shave!” she hollered.
Several people in the room giggled.
Cute, I was thinking, looking around the for an abominable snowman.
“He needs to SHAVE!” she shouted again, this time in my general direction.
“Mama,” gasped her daughter. “Be nice.”
I smiled at the old woman. And that’s when it hit me. This lady was yelling about me.
I am the Bigfoot.
And I became a middle-schooler again. It was like a bad dream, only without the corduroy pants and the Barry Manilow music.
The woman’s daughter apologized. But I told her it wasn’t necessary.
The old lady went on, “Your face looks like a big, fat bear!”
Precious memories. How they linger.
Eventually, she calmed and I finished breakfast in peace. She, more or less, forgot about me—until I stood to leave. Then, she noticed me again.
Her old passions reignited.
“Go shave your dumb face!” she hollered.
The daughter whispered to me, “I’m SO sorry, my mother has no filter.”
I got into my truck and took a few breaths. I looked into the rearview mirror.
I don’t know what that woman might be going through. Maybe she’s not in control of her mind. Maybe she’s had a traumatic experience involving too much hair.
Either way, all I could see in my mirror was a chubby middle-schooler who looked like Cousin It. I saw a boy I’d almost forgotten. A mediocre athlete, a redhead, a C-student, a face like a Pilsbury ad.
My birthday is on the horizon, I’m thinking, and some woman just called me ugly. In public. Repeatedly.
It started in my belly and went to my throat. I laughed. Hard. I don’t know why. The universe has a sense of humor, I guess.
Funny, what words can do to a man. Simple, little words. They can make you feel good. Or bad. Or they can make you feel like the mascot for U.S. forest fire prevention.
So my purpose in life. I still don’t know what it is. But I can tell you my aspiration: to be nice.
I don’t have any grand plan. No big ideas. I just want to be the fella who smiles more than he doesn’t.
If you ask me—which you didn’t—the world has enough people who have figured life out. They’re smart, prudent, with four-car garages.
That’s not me. I can’t even remember how to play Bingo. But I do know the person I want to be. I want to be the man who hugs strangers, pets stray dogs, and uses nice words. A man you might pass on the street, then say to yourself:
“Look, there goes a nice guy…
“Who just happens to look like Sasquatch.”