caesar salad and being selfish

we’re not meant to do this dance alone

“Sorry, the kitchen is closed.”

After our third strikeout, we realized our charming and quaint town in the Cotswolds was a little too charming and quaint when everything closed by 9 pm.

Eli and I had both worked late that night, and needed options for dinner before I became a raging bitch. IYKYK.

So we found the closest Tesco and made our way to grab a few items we could turn into a quick meal.

Wags couldn’t go inside, which meant someone needed to hang back and watch him.

“I’ll stay with him,” I offered until I realized I would have company.

There was a young man who was homeless sitting in a sleeping bag outside of the store.

Eli and I exchanged looks, and without needing to say anything, Eli said, “That’s okay. You can go in and I’ll take him.”

I appreciated him looking out for me while I shopped for onions and ground beef, and maybe a cookie or two.

Before I went in though, I stopped and offered to buy the man out front a meal.

“Can I get you anything to eat?”
“A Caesar salad.”
“Okay, you got it.” Even though I found it a strange request.

When I exited the store, Eli and the young man were talking. Not surprised. Eli has a charm about him that could open anyone.

I watched him do it the week prior when the clerk ringing us up at Joe & The Juice went from moody asshole to actually giggling, all because Eli cheered her up.

His superpower. Not mine.

As we walked down the dimly lit cobblestone street back towards our cottage, I asked him, “So what did you guys talk about?”

Eli had tears in his eyes.

“He told me that he lost his mom a few years ago. Then his dad a year after that.”

He went on to explain that losing both parents sent him into a deep depression, and because of that he began to drink.

His girlfriend couldn’t take his drinking anymore, so she kicked him out and now he lives on the streets.

Apparently, he has siblings, but they are too busy with their own lives to help.

“His mom told him to eat healthy, which is why he asked for the salad, I’m guessing.”

“Oh, and he said right before his dad passed he told him to be selfish. He said he can’t figure out what he meant, but he thinks of it every time he now has to ask someone for food.”

That conversation stuck with me in the days that followed. I thought of his kind and sad eyes. And how sometimes it’s simply a series of events that leads to a dark twist in a person’s story.

A few days later, Eli was at the gym, and I told him I would run to the store to get dinner before he got back.

I was wondering if I would see my friend there, and sure enough, he was outside again.

“Caesar salad?” I asked, smiling on my way in.
“Actually, may I have a microwave meal this time? They told me I could heat my food in there.”
“You got it.”
“But no mushrooms, please.”

I laughed as I made my way into the store. Eli had told me the same thing the other day when I made his egg scramble with apparently too many mushrooms.

I picked out a spaghetti dish that looked hearty and healthy. And definitely without mushrooms.

But this time, as I went to hand it to him, there was another man also handing him a meal.

He avoided my gaze. “I don’t need your meal anymore, thank you,” he said, trying to shoo me away.

He was embarrassed. As if having two meals was suddenly something to be ashamed of.

“Don’t be silly. Take the food. Now you have a meal for tomorrow.”

He looked up at me, with a near smile.

“Can I give you a hug?”
“Of course.”

He hugged me briefly, then turned to take his meals inside to warm them.

“You’re a legend!” he shouted as he walked away.

As I began my trek back home, I thought about what this man’s father had said to him. About being selfish.

And I thought about my period of selfishness too.

No, I was never homeless. But I did live in a van for a short period of time after I left my marriage. By choice.

And I never, ever would have gone without food or shelter because of the people who love me, and my privilege.

But damn, there was a time where I really needed help. And selfishness was all I could muster.

I needed to receive.

At times, it was financial support.

But I also needed friends to hold me when I cried. Parents to help me navigate things like getting my first car loan.

I needed coaches to witness my grief.

Doctors to support my healing.

I didn’t have much to give to anyone but myself, as I healed and slowly but surely found a home within myself again.

It was a really fucking hard chapter.

And I’m not so dumb to think I won’t enter another one of those again.

Because that’s what we sign up for on this human ride.

Darkness is guaranteed.

And so is needing to receive when that darkness comes again.

When I was visiting family for the first time since leaving my marriage, I remember my aunt giving me some money.

I was so grateful and began to cry.

“I can’t wait to be able to pay it forward.”

She reminded me of her own divorce, and how she too was in that dark place. And how it felt so good to give to a family member who needed it.

Now, here I was, being in a place where giving was easy.

Where I have a roof over my head, all of my needs met, and beyond.

My selfish era was over. And my giving from overflow had quietly arrived.

We’re not meant to do this all alone.

We’re meant to take turns being the one who needs, and the one who gives.

My selfishness saved me. Because I never lost sight of the fact that one day I would be able to give again in a way that mattered.

And maybe that’s the secret: selfishness and generosity aren’t opposites at all.

They’re two sides of the same human story.

One we all get to take turns living.