Every addict and alcoholic I've ever met- and many muggles too- grew up feeling somehow different from his peers. I'm always convinced that non-alcoholics have some secret rule book that I never got. I play a constant game of comparison where I pick complete strangers and decide if I'm more or less impressive/attractive/magical than them. I frequently feel like I was born in the wrong century or on the wrong continent. I know that I'm exactly where and when I'm supposed to be and have learned to accept that I'm not always happy with who I am.
As a person who lives alone, I frequently go several hours without interacting with other people. I have come to pay close attention to my first human contact of the day. I don't count texts, Facebook or email. The first contact has to be close enough to blow a kiss. Or flip the bird.
About a year and a half ago, I had a girlfriend who lived with me for a few months. She had this amazing ability to take up a staggering percentage of the bed we shared. Her five foot, 100 pound frame would crowd me to the edge of the bed until I fell off. My first human interaction of the day was often a knee to the ribs or spine. Seven years ago I sleep walked (okay, I was probably drunk) out of a hotel room without my key at 4 AM. The first human interaction of that day occurred when the elevator doors opened and the front desk clerk saw me standing in my underwear. Nine years ago I woke up on a beach in Hawaii under a blazing hot sun. I looked to my right and saw a picnic bench teeming with empty bottles. I looked to my left and saw some very unhappy locals.
Today I woke up bright and early at 5:30 to get ready for the first day of the new quarter. I drank some coffee, read some morning reminders, glanced at the weather and made my way into town. I parked my car and walked by my favorite breakfast spot. The Streamliner Diner might be the greatest place for breakfast in the entire history of the meal. The food is fantastic and so are the employees. Celine was dutifully setting up the restaurant, but she saw me walking by the window and gave me a warm wave and smile. I trudged on towards the ferry and as I began to approach a coffee stand I saw a guy behind the window wearing a colorful beanie with a big, furry ball on top. As I passed, he flung open the door revealing himself to be Tim Tully, perhaps the friendliest man I've ever met, and exclaimed "Hi, Kevin! Have a good day!"
I grinned so big I thought the tips of my smile would meet on the back of my head. "Good morning, Tim! It's nice to see you today."
Neither of these people know that I'm an alcoholic who was born in 1432 on the planet Mars. Neither of them would care if they knew. These are good people who would generously share their copies of the rule book with me if I asked them to. The point is- the thing I want to share with you, the reason I'm writing this- is that when she waved through the window with the glare of the overcast sunlight mixing with the stenciled name of the restaurant, and when he burst through the door like a jack in the box and called me by name, I joined the human race for a few seconds.
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