If we were sipping bourbon: Day 29

Salted maple old fashioned

I thought maybe tonight we'd share a nip of bourbon if you don't mind. A new speakeasy opened up not long ago near me, and they serve a tasty salted maple old fashioned, although I still prefer the original. They'll also make you a virgin Moscow mule in a copper cup if you'd prefer to keep your wits about you. It doesn't matter to me. I just want to celebrate 29 days in a row of posting on this here blog. One more to go after this, and then I'll start breaking promises about how often I'm going to post again.

If we were sipping bourbon at the speakeasy I'd tell you I've learned something from working at the farmer's market, which is one of several part-time jobs I have. And that is that people come in many shapes and sizes and heights and ages, and wear all kinds of styles of clothes,  from jogging shorts to ripped jeans to tight skirts and teetering high heels, and have all kinds of body embellishments .... or not ... and sport a million different hair styles, and it's all just fine. Some days I watch a few thousand people walk past whichever store I'm tending, and while I notice many of them, I don't judge because after the first few hundred, it just doesn't matter at all.

Oh sure, if somebody is wearing something really unusual or they have certain body parts hanging out more than most people I might glance over at Gary, who sells chicken patties, and raise my eyebrows. But most often I find myself feeling grateful that I get to be in a place where we're all so different. I grew up in what was a pretty homogeneous small Iowa town. I desperately wanted to get out of there and meet some people who didn't look like me, so working at the market -- even in a smallish city in the midwest -- is a fulfillment of that dream.

At the market, I talk to so many kinds of people. I love the diversity. One day I helped some young African men practice their English at the dairy where I work sometimes. Milk. Cheese. Eggs. One man has a huge head of dreads, and he wears them in a knitted hat the size of Santa's sack. Coraline and I love to get Moroccan soup from the Greek lady down the aisle. We still can't pronounce "harira" like she does, but we keep trying. Some people are strapped into wheel chairs and don't seem to know where they are, but their caretakers are relieved to be out on a field trip. Others come on a bus together from a group home and they're so happy to be out at the market together, tasting samples, and often holding each others' hands. A nearby charter school will send classes of kids some Thursdays for lunch. They are excited to get some freedom and are so well behaved. Groups of office workers power walk through on their short lunch breaks. People come to the market from all over the country and all over the world. Marshall, the chocolate guy, finally put up a map with push pins so he could keep track.

Marshall's map

I just realized I wanted to make two points. One: I love working in a place where most of the people who come in are happy to be there. It's so different from teaching, because most of the people I've taught over the years didn't really want to be taking a writing class. I felt like I was holding them hostage. But I'm almost always happy when I'm at the market, even if I am on my feet on concrete for upwards of 8 hours that day. One guy might give me a lecture on internet phones (I have notes somewhere). Another will ask if our buffalo (flavored) cheese curds are made from buffalo milk and then laugh at himself when I tell him I've never milked a buffalo. A regular customer will give me a weekly update me on her recent surgery to reconstruct her breasts after her third bout with breast cancer. A new mother who was pregnant the last time I saw her will show off her new baby. An old friend might stop by and sit down behind the counter to visit during my slow spells. I feel privileged to talk with all of them. OK, most of them. Out of thousands of people, a few assholes will always creep in. I don't take that home with me.

My second point is that it really doesn't matter what you look like, especially in a place like the market. Or it has come to not matter to me what people look like, and that has made me less self-conscious about how I look. People are all so different, they start to look alike in a way. They're all just someone to meet and share a minute or a few seconds of friendliness with. It's namaste, and would you like to try a cheese curd or some kettle corn?

I will say -- the bourbon will say -- one thing I've noticed is that most people don't have round butts. Some do, but I'll bet it's fewer than you think. We are a nation of people with flat glutes. It's not just you. 

Also, being thin doesn't seem to make people happier or more friendly. It doesn't make them less. It just doesn't matter. And sometimes the grouchiest looking people have the nicest smiles if I smile at them first and say "hi."

Sometimes working with the public can harden people and make them bitter, but the market tends to do the opposite. I hope you can come see me there some day and we'll share some chocolate milk or some caramel corn, depending on where I'm working that day.

Was one bourbon enough for you? Because I need to get to bed. The more I write the more I have to say, but I'll save some for tomorrow.

How about you? Do you love your job? How does it make you feel about people?