The Flog – The Fabry Log

Busy, busy, busy. That's the way we live our lives. We rush from one thing to the next, trying to squeeze as much time as we can into the day to do more things and get more done. To what end?

Normally I'm a pretty laid back person. If I'm stuck in traffic, I try not to let it bother me. I look at it as a natural phenomenon like a storm and try to ride it out. But I had one of those days this week where I found myself rushing around, trying to get lots of things done. I even called my wife and asked if she needed anything from town.

"Oh, yes, Ryan needs his pants picked up," she said. "I'm so glad you called."

So that added meaning to my rushing. I was now on a sacred mission. I hurried to the mall, found the store's location, and parked in a perfect spot location to rush in and rush out. The store was just inside the mall next to Macy's.

I usually don't go into Macy's. It's a place I walk through rather than have as a destination. And I was glad the aisles were pretty clear so I could rush past the women's clothing and purses and jewelry and perfume and get to the mall doors, then purchase the pants and exit. The perfect hunt, kill, and run we men are so adept at.

I checked my watch. I was right on time for the next appointment. I slung the pants over my shoulder and headed back into Macy's, having memorized the route I would need to take to get to my car. However, right at the purses I was stopped by an elderly couple. They were walking slowly together, hand in hand. I checked the route and stepped left to go around them, through some nice looking sweaters, when something inside, something deep inside said to stop. Don't go around them.

Weird. I was in my man mode. My rush happiness. I was making good time. I needed to hurry.

But I chose to slow to a snail's pace. Painfully slow. Agonizingly slow. And I watched them. She was obviously in much better shape than he. Her strides were more vigorous. She stood taller and her skin tone was much more vibrant. Her hands didn't seem as gnarled as his. He was taking at least two steps to every one of hers. His shoulders were stooped and it looked like he could barely see over the brim of his hat. And still they walked, hand in hand, blocking the middle of the aisle.

They were talking to each other in that morse code of older people who have known each other a lifetime. Grunts and short bursts of conversation. I wanted to get closer to hear, and I could imagine some of what they were saying, but I didn't dare get so close as to interrupt their walk or make them feel...rushed.

Now we were three people walking slowly. The women from the dress department, about four of them, were talking loudly to our left. There was something about a price mismatch or a display that needed tending. The couple glanced their way but kept going. I could see my door coming up, but I lingered there, imagining them 40 years earlier rushing around and running errands and tending their children. White haired and lovely as the sun they now walked together, like two ducks waddling toward fresh water.

I finally peeled off to the left and passed them. He looked over at me, his face turtle like, his eyes fixed on my stride, as if he envied my quickness and youth and purpose. But I was the envious one.