Remember when we used to set the clocks ahead by an hour in April instead of March? Although we’ve been doing so on the second Sunday in March for nearly a decade now, in the days leading up, I gladly remind others.
“Don’t forget!” I sing out, part know-it-all, part good samaritan. They thank me and my ego laps it up. Then, almost as quickly, I drop it like a puppy caught toting around its owner’s shoe. The fact is, I’ve been using my recall skills to jockey for approval as long as I can remember—and I’m ready to let it go for good.
I start sentences with “I told you thats” and “Remember, I saids.” Preambles more petty than poised. On the one hand, I am trying to be helpful. On the other, I recognize that my words can feel like a power play. But with whom am I competing? And for what? And why?
Dana and I made plans for our first date—brunch at the Biltmore—two years ago on Sunday, March 9. In the days leading up, I resisted the urge to remind this friendly, easygoing stranger about the clock change detail. It was a conscious omission. An exercise in faith and an experiment in trust.
Indeed, he managed just fine without my reminder. I remember his confident stride and warm smile as he rounded the corner just a minute after me. I remember the sun glinting off his black nylon jacket. I remember the crunch of grit beneath my leather-soled boots as I strode toward him with a smile.
Dana held the door open for me as we entered the restaurant. The hostess greeted us and, before she led us to our seat, Dana if they served “omelets and mimosas.”
There was a flicker in my mind—much like a burnt fuse—and, just as quickly, it was gone. Instead of focusing on the obvious (Omelets and mimosas? Of course they serve omelets and mimosas! We’re here for brunch. And even if they didn’t, it’s not like we’re going to leave. So why are you asking?), I shifted my attention to the spirit of his inquiry. “I’d love to have omelets and mimosas with you” were the words I had used a few days earlier to accept Dana’ invitation to brunch—the meal I had previously declared as my favorite. (Still is.) Intentional or not, Dana’s attention to—and use of—my details won me over.
If I had said to him, “Duh. They’re serving brunch. Of course they have omelets and mimosas,” that first date wouldn’t have gone so well. There would have been no random-but-awesome pant shopping expedition later that afternoon. There would have been no first kiss in the bookstore. No proposal overlooking the harbor.
Lately, when I catch myself ready to slingshot a detail I remember and he has forgotten, I’ve been trying to repeat this phrase—omelets and mimosas—to nudge me back on course. Those three words—and the warmth surrounding them—remind me how it feels when details are served up in a kinder, gentler manner. When the intent speaks louder than the facts.
Like all new habits, though, it takes practice—and a little compassion when things get off track. I definitely have not mastered this yet. But I’m committed. All I can do is make an honest promise. Omelets and mimosas.
Soundtrack: “Life” by the Avett Brothers (The song on the radio before I left the house that morning. Yep, I remember.)
