Roly-Poly
It’s my favorite bench, the one I always choose for relaxing during work breaks. It’s nothing special, just an ordinary old concrete bench, but it’s mine. When I arrived this morning it was already occupied. A roly-poly was making its way across the bench. I brushed it aside, and, true to its name, it rolled up into a hard little ball as I flicked it away and sat down.
I disrupted the life of a roly-poly so I could sit down. I don’t know where it was going, and, honestly, I really didn’t care. Roly-polies are useless anyway, and it was definitely in my way, in my space. Now, thinking back over the incident, I realize that it was pretty rude of me. I had other options:
I could have sat down somewhere else . . . but there was no place in the shade.
I could have remained standing . . . but I was tired.
I could have sat on it . . . it deserved it.
I could have apologized . . . but I didn’t say a thing.
I could have waited for it to finish its journey . . . but they’re so slow.
I could stop thinking about the entire thing . . .
I don’t know if the metaphor holds, but there’s an undercurrent in the culture, sometimes even blatantly voiced aloud, about old people:
You’re so slow . . . things need to move faster now.
You’re in the way of progress . . . we’re very busy here.
Retire and get out of the way . . . we’re done with you.
Hurry up and die . . . this is not your place anymore.
Before my culture takes a notion to flick me out of the way, I just have one thing to say:
For goodness sakes, have a seat. There’s plenty of room on this bench for all us.