Divine love in the grocery line

Dear Trudy, the 60-something LOML

I'm parked outside the local co-op right now, munching on a bag of chocolate covered almonds, typing this in my car. I feel blissed out because the dreamboat cashier called me beautiful.

There I was: two bags of chocolate covered almonds and a box of cereal cradled in my arms. Don't tell anyone, but I eat like a child. My inner 6 year old loves sweets, and like any good yuppie mom, I make sure to buy them organic and gluten free at the local co-op.

I walk up to the cashier—a 60-something year old woman I've never met before. Gray hair and a sweet smile, slightly mischevious, but maybe I'm projecting. I'm smiling too, for no particular reason. Maybe I'm excited to eat the chocolate—I'm a simple creature.

Or maybe I’m picking up on her "subtle body", her "energetic field".

As I stand in line seven feet away from her, I feel something. Whatever that something is, it signals: "This is a kind person. You should feel happy to be approaching her."

So, I'm smiling. Her smile makes me smile.

There's a science behind it. We can sense levels of internal security or fear in other people, and this helps us determine whether we want to move closer or further away. We are social mammals who evolved to attune to signals of safety and danger in those around us as a reflection of our proximity to danger in our environments.

When we are in close proximity to someone exhibiting signals that they are in distress or experiencing danger, we intuit that a threat is close by, so our first animal instinct is typically to move further away, to distance ourselves from the threat. (This is the reason you cross the street when passing the guy mumbling to himself and waving his arms erratically.)

Our next instinct, though, might be to move closer to them, to protect them from the danger, particularly if they’re our kin, and if we learned that our survival hinges more on our attachments than on threat mitigation—if we learned that we are helpless alone, that we must stay attached to survive, and that being alone is more threatening than any possible threat out there. But usually, unless attachments override instincts—which often they do, and often they should—mammals move away from other mammals in distress, and we move towards those who emanate safety.

Yes, there is a science behind it. There's also a mysticism. There's also a "vibe".

She had a good vibe—what can I say?

Her "aura" made me want to come closer. Her smile made me want to smile.

I'm smiling. When I reach the front of the line, we make striking eye contact, soft yet intense, all smiles, no words. Comfortable silence, a strange mutual understanding. I know what it's like to be forced to wear a smile for the public every day, or for your family, or for whoever. I know what it's like to spend your life doing things you don't want to do, saying things you don’t want to say. I don't strike conversations with retail workers. I do not want anyone to do things they don't really want to do around me--

"You have a beautiful face," she blurts out suddenly.

The way she says it makes me really believe her.

She blurts it out as if she simply cannot contain herself. No bashfulness or hesitation, she is a 3 year old rapidly learning about the world, learning how to simply name the things she sees. Learning how to blurt out facts. Apparently, it's a fact that I have a beautiful face.

I don't usually take compliments to heart because I know compliments are rooted in personal desire. Compliments are, in one way or another, a means of expressing something we want from someone through the euphemism of something we like about them. Something we want? Connection, friendship, belonging, love—it’s usually innocent.

She didn't want anything specific. No motive, just making observations. Simply stating facts!

I catch myself about to compulsively reply, "You do too, seriously," but I don't. I want to. Her face is striking, and I like to throw compliments back at people. I like to fling the attention in a different direction.

I stop myself. Instead, I try on what it feels like to accept her words.

"Wow, thank you. That's so kind of you," I breathe.

"Well, it's true! Some people just have natural beauty." She's so sure of herself.

"We can't see ourselves quite clearly," I tell her.

She giggles, "When I was young, my boyfriend told me I had a crooked smile."

"I don't see it."

That's all I said. I wanted to shower her with compliments. I wanted to tell her that her sweet, mischievous, "crooked" smile was what made me start smiling in the grocery line to begin with. I wanted to tell her that her smile made me smile, and my smile was the only reason my face looked beautiful, and so whatever beauty she saw on my face was actually created by her, now being reflected back to her for her to enjoy, for her to smile back at, full circle.

It’s true, but I don't say anything.

"What's your name?" she asks me.

"Kelsey," I tell her, and she yells, "Of course!"

I look confused. "A beautiful name, too," she explains.

Bizarre. I hated my name before. I even changed it for a year. I hated my name because I hated myself, because I carried mountains of shame to protect myself, because I was abused as a child, yada, yada, yada—my name change was a cope, we get it.

There's someone waiting in line, so we bid our farewells. She tells me it was very nice to meet me, I tell her I'll see her around, and she tells me she looks forward to it.

What was that?

There was a peculiar strain of feminine magic between us. She saw my beauty, and I let her. I won't go into the gory details of how long I spent unable to see my own beauty, unwilling to let others see it. I'll just say it took me a long time to get here—to accept a compliment.

I leave the co-op with the euphoria and butterflies of a middle school crush, gifted to me by a 60-something year old woman, feeling some type of way no romantic partner has ever made me feel. I found divine love in the grocery line. Love can’t help but burst through from every direction when you're open to it, I guess. I'm opening.