Bill, I love you so, I always will...

Things I learned while shaking Bill Clinton's hand at a Hillary rally today:

1. The man can work a room. He exudes charm.

2. He totally gave me a second look.

3. He smells so good I could lick him. While he shook the hands of people behind me, I was pressed into him for a blissful thirty seconds or so. Any thought of saying something intelligent about Iraq or the environment faded to, "Is it improper to ask a former president what he's wearing that smells so good?"

People are strange, when you’re a stranger

As someone who frequents coffeeshops, I’ve developed very strict rules about proper coffeeshop etiquette. Hyper children do not belong in coffeeshops. People in ties do not belong in coffeeshops (they have an air of tension about them; it’s unnerving). For the love of all things holy, couples meeting with wedding coordinators do not belong in coffeeshops. Several times, I’ve been on the verge of literary greatness only to be distracted by an exclamation of, “I just LOVE calla lilles!” And most of all, Bluetooth headsets do not belong in coffeeshops. Unless someone is in the Secret Service or driving a car, that level of accessibility borders on obsessive compulsive.

In short, I’m an antsy coffeeshop customer. And thus begins my story…

Having hit a wall during my research at home today, I headed to Caribou Coffee with my books. My problem wasn’t lack of concentration, I justified; it was lack of a cinnamon latte. I settled into the perfect corner at the ‘Bou with a nice protective buffer from any people and got to work. Soon after, an elderly woman with a giant cup of coffee came shuffling towards me, making odd sounds.

At first, I thought she was humming. But as she settled into the table next to mine, I realized she was singing. It was the kind of singing that sounds like mumbling to everyone but the singer. In the mind of the singer, it’s accompanied by an inner soundtrack and self-delusion, making it sound like the greatest song ever sung. This woman’s song sounded like a 40s love ballad, a sweet, bluesy song, in which her mumbles were intertwined with dah daah daaaah's. Great. In the midst of Caribou Coffee, I had freakin’ Dinah Shore sitting next to me.

Right away I associated her quirkiness with mental illness. When the woman’s song only gave way to another, when she didn’t even care that people were most likely mocking her, I peeked down at her shoes and got all the confirmation I needed: tan and blue sneakers. Crazy people always wear weird-colored sneakers. This woman was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Not only did I grow more frustrated with the interruption, but I'm ashamed to say that I began to dismiss her as a person. There I was trying to work and do something important, and a crazy old lady had to come and sit next to me and derail my train of thought, sluggish as it was.

Then I saw her smile.

I peered over to get a full view of the crazy lady, and my cynicism immediately melted into sentiment. With an unselfconscious smile, she propped her elbows on the table, hands gently cupping her cheeks. She watched the rain outside while gently swaying to her music. Her short legs allowed her feet to just barely hit the floor, and occasionally, her toes would reach down to tap to her song. She showed no signs of being alone, and I got the feeling that she wasn’t. Was she dreaming of a long-ago dance with a great love? Was she humming a song she once sang to her children? It was obvious that while she sat alone, she nonetheless kept the company of someone. Judging by the sadness in her eyes, it seemed a person who was unable—for one reason or another—to be with her anymore. When I heard the first break in her music, I caught her patting her eye with a napkin. She wasn’t pitiful, though; if anything, she was enviable. She was fully living in her moment, unaware of those of us around her. In my lap was a book on transcendentalism, and at the table next to me was a woman living Emerson’s words: “It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” Perfect sweetness is the only way to describe the look on her face. Whether or not people judged her didn’t seem to matter.

Maybe we’re quick to notice the craziness in others because we don’t want to see it in ourselves. I’m an introvert who loves dogs and books – it doesn’t take a specialist to see my potential as a crazy old lady. I have all the makings. Maybe that’s why I was a little harsh on this woman. Perhaps we most estrange those people who address our own fears. They have something we have, too, but rather than notice that, it’s easier to dismiss them and go about our delusion of being the coolest kid in town.

Happy people seem to be the first ones pegged as nutters. When I moved to Charlotte, I spent the first week thinking I had moved to a town of simpletons. People I didn’t know kept waving and asking how I was, telling me to have a blessed day. I’d smile back while reaching for my pepper spray. I soon learned, however, that it’s not being crazy; it’s being Southern. I absolutely love it now. Errands are so much more enjoyable when in the company (and not just presence) of strangers. For so long I’ve associated intelligence with cynicism – surely, anyone who has a brain cell realizes how screwed the world is and how horrible people can be toward each other. But there’s something to be said about knowing how screwed the world is, but believing in people anyway, in accepting those who seem different or odd. The latter is much more courageous. (And as I’m learning, is much more difficult.)

I prolonged my visit to the coffeeshop because I felt such peace coming from that woman. She was teaching me just as much as the book before me. We settled into a rhythm, my note-taking set to her soft serenade. If I was the one who was normal—the one who bustled into a coffeeshop dismissing someone for being different—and she was the one who was crazy, perhaps I’m not as smart as I think I am.

Hail to the Nachos

I’ve gotten into football this year more than any past year. Years were spent faking it, through cheering on the Redskins and the Hokies while merely staking out the chili and nacho options. I might’ve shown up to the game, but I was there for the food. Football fans know their food: they know that a cheese dip just isn’t a dip unless it includes sausage, or that the only way to improve on good food is to deep fry it. While I show great self-restraint during the week, it melts like Velveeta at the sound of John Madden.

For years, sports enthusiasts freaked me out: people who spurt facts and figures of teams long gone, who analyze plays past the point of making it ten yards for a first down. In the past, I believed this to be a character flaw, a mismanaged use of a great memory and critical thinking skills. It made me uncomfortable when such people used mysterious words and phrases like “special teams” and “blitz.” I used phrases like “extra cheese” and “does anyone know if I can find some jalepenos around here?”

The more seasons passed the more I learned to appreciate football, although initially not as a show of athleticism. I enjoyed football for its ability to bring people together. Some people I otherwise had nothing in common with could be my big ally in the Monday night game. Any other day of the week, we might struggle through forced conversation, but during a game, we’d yell and cheer and high five (or moan and whine and commiserate). Noticing its ability to bring people together, I started to ask my football guru friends to give me one analysis of a big game for me to memorize and pass off as personal opinion, repeated ad nauseum through the week. At the coffeemaker at work, I’d nonchalantly recite my rehearsed opinion of a team’s running game, secretly fearing that someone might ask me to define running game, exposing me as the fraud I was. No worries. People would launch into a diatribe on the subject as I stirred my coffee and nodded. A friendship was formed. They’d see me around the halls and I suddenly was more than just that web developer who sat in the corner. I was a football fan. I was one of them.

The most dramatic example of the power of football came a few years ago during a conversation with my father. At the time, he and I weren’t the closest pair and found little in common. During one quiet family dinner, he casually mentioned the Steelers game that evening. He hails from western Pennsylvania, where the Steelers rank with God as entities one must have faith in. Coincidentally my memorized quote of the week, courtesy of my coworker Rich, was about the Steelers. I hid my smile behind my pizza and said, “You know, it might’ve been a long run, but sticking with Cower really paid off.” I had no idea who or what a Cower was (a coach, apparently), but I knew my father would. His mouth dropped open, his pizza fell from his hands, as he looked at me with a combination of awe and admiration. More than any other time, more than the ballet recitals or the graduations, I impressed the hell out of my dad. Football can do crazy things like that.

Football is capable of all sorts of miracles. While sitting in stands, I lose my taste for a nice dry cabernet sauvignon and crave a light beer. A light beer. Even in DC, where people can’t agree about anything but the traffic, a touchdown has us all on our feet and singing "Hail to the Redskins," suddenly a group of 90,000 friends. Nothing makes me smile like two strangers high-fiving. What else could provoke such unrestrained signs of enthusiasm? I have a theory that football allows some men to break down their barriers, to reach out to new friends. That theory earns me a lot of eye rolling for turning a sport into a sociological study, but next time a game is on in a bar, watch the men. While otherwise most would sit within their own surly bubble, football gives them a shared interest. It sparks friendship between men who otherwise fear that initiating conversation with a man they don’t know renders them ineligible for any military service but the Navy.

This year, I’ve enjoyed football for football’s sake. Occasionally, my take on the game is quickly echoed by the commentator, telling me I’m getting things right. I know what a running game is, I know a crap call when I hear one. I’m still not getting everything right, though. Even when the opposing team wins, I still say things like, “But just imagine how happy their families are right now. Doesn’t that make it OK?” Apparently, it doesn’t. Other than this sense of compassion (to all but Terrell Owens), I’m beginning to understand the strategy, to know that these aren’t a bunch of big oafs running into each other, but part of a well-calculated system of plays.

Still, however, my favorite part of football isn’t what happens on the field, but in the stands, at the watercooler, or in my home. My favorite part comes when my couch is full of friends, laughing and cheering together, or when people who have a hard time opening up to others can do so because football provides a common interest. My favorite part of football is the sense of camaraderie it creates.

Well, that and the nachos.