One of my late father's favorite expressions (credited to John Lennon, though my Dad didn't know it), was "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." As I start this new year, 5782 on the Jewish calendar, I'm reminded of how I usually have an agenda for my daily life, a series of assumptions or unspoken demands, which goes something like this: 'Life should bring me what I want, preferably today, while helping me avoid fear, discomfort, illness and the loss of loved ones.'
Naturally, what I often get is exactly what I don't want. Maturity (a destination I believe I should have reached in my 60s but have not) would mean accepting, working with, and possibly transcending the various events and life circumstances I didn't order from the catalog.
On Monday morning, I endured a long rush-hour drive on a trip from Medford to Beverly, bumper-to-bumper along Rt 128. I had detailed direction from my contact at the library, and arrived early, only to find that access to the library parking lot was blocked by a construction crew; the road was closed.
I always allow extra time and so I found a nearby city lot, parked for 75 cents, and walked over to the library, where I did my show (masked) for 15 Seniors. Though I am not a morning person, I got energized performing for the group, who were together (also masked) for the first time since March of 2020.
The show went reasonably well, considering I hadn't done a live performance in 18 months. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, until I stopped into the local bookstore to see if they would carry my book. For some reason, my memoir wasn't listed in the supplier's database, which meant they (or any other bookstore or library) couldn't order my memoir.
Given that promoting a book during Covid is a herculean task and my sales have been minimal-to-nonexistent, I was disappointed, bummed out, and frustrated with my publisher.
Back in my car, I typed out a diplomatic but forceful email, asking why the book was no longer available. As I prepared to press send, my car still parked in the city lot, I felt my Kia sedan shake, and heard a voice call out "Sorry!" I got out, walked around to the passenger side and saw that a middle-aged woman had accidentally slammed her rear door into my car, leaving a two-inch long indentation in the Kia's formerly pristine exterior. "We're on a hill," she explained, and then apologized several more times.
She offered to give me some money, but in that moment, I just wanted to retreat, to start over and to pretend the whole thing hadn't happened. I left the lot, after declining her offer, and stopped at a gas station, since I was running on empty.
The pump wasn't working; the attendant came out and explained that the power was out. Then the navigation screen blacked out, and suddenly my Monday morning went from bad to worse.
But once I got home, I managed to calm down and to start to put things in perspective. I got an email from my publisher, explaining that he had made a few changes in my manuscript, which I had requested, and the book would be back online by the next day.
The navigation screen on my Kia magically rebooted and came back to life, and I managed to find an open gas station before my tank was bone dry.
The next morning, I drove over to my auto body shop, where the owner looked at my car. The dent was superficial and almost (but not quite) invisible in the right light. In the wrong light, my Kia is no longer pristine, but that's the price of living in Boston, and a car—even one I love dearly—is just a car.
At 64, I still sweat the small stuff. But maybe the slow accumulation of wisdom, life experience and practice mean that I can sweat those small things a little less. After all, I have no time to waste.
Judah Leblang is a writer, teacher and storyteller in Boston. His memoir, Echoes of Jerry, is available at judahleblang.com and on Amazon.