On Tequila, and a Leprechaun Named Opportunity

I'm going to tell you something I've only told three of my closest friends: I saw a leprechaun once. 

I did. And he wasn't on the side of a cereal box, either. Nope. It was still hours from breakfast, when I saw the little guy, in the flesh, standing next to my bed, staring down at me, where I had been sleeping. 

He wasn’t cute and cartoonish either—like our General Mills friend, Lucky—but rather, he had a sloppy look about him. The sort of disheveled appearance you’d expect of any man, at four in the morning.  He stood about four and a half feet tall, weighing maybe a hundred and thirty pounds. And he wore an outfit not dissimilar to Santa’s—except, it was green, of course.  His hair was red, curly, and full, to match the beard surrounding his irritated scowl.  He wore no hat that I recall.  Or maybe he did.  What I do remember, and distinctly, is the stale, sour smell he had about him—or maybe that was me.  I'd been drinking margaritas, the previous evening.

Anyway, the point isn’t that I saw a leprechaun, or even whether I did.  The point is what I did about it. Or rather what I didn't do.  

~

Several years prior to this night, on an afternoon in November, my children—three, six and eight years old, at the time—came flying up the stairs, from the playroom, screaming with anxious excitement. 

“We saw a leprechaun!” they said, over top of one another. "We need a box to catch him.” 

"Hurry!" my son said.

I didn’t have a box. I offered them spatulas and whisks, instead—tools perfect for any childhood game—and a big blanket that I suggested they could toss over him. 

Off they went.   I didn’t go with them.  I didn't believe in leprechauns.   

Only minutes later they came moping back up again. 

“He’s gone,” they said. And they settled in to watch television, escaping their disappointment for the lost opportunity.  

~

So, what didn’t I do when I awoke to find a leprechaun standing within a foot of my person, well within my grasp?  Well, I certainly didn’t try to catch him.  Instead, I spent precious seconds convincing myself that he wasn’t there.

Then I yanked the sheets from my bed, but not to toss them over the scowling little man and demand his gold. Instead, I jerked them up over my own head, and had a stern conversation with myself about drinking too much, and delusions, and pulling it together.  Then, a few good headshakes later, I peeked out again. 

He was still there.

Up the blankets went again, for two full minutes, this time, while my heart beat fast with fear, and my rational brain argued with my wide and blinking eyes.

When I ventured out again, still nothing had changed, except for the leprechaun’s scowl; he was thoroughly disgusted with me.  

Up came the covers a third time.

“Go away,” I finally said, loudly and forcefully, past lips dry from the previous night's imbibing, and thoroughly convinced I had lost my mind. 

When I finally came out again, several minutes later, he was gone.

I don't expect he'll come knocking again.

~

So, why am I sharing this with you, this incident that—if a sane person were to experience it—a sane person would know better than to share it? 

Well, in hindsight, it occurs to me that this evening fell sometime during the spring of 2008, around the time that the price of gold was spiking, and just months before the recession would land on my doorstep with a loud and heavy thud.  A stash of gold would have come in quite handy around then.  But, of course, I didn't believe in leprechauns. 

So, there's a lesson that comes with this wacky experience, and it applies to all, the believers and the nonbelievers, and it's pretty basic: The first requirement of opportunity is that you believe. The second is that you recognize it. And the third is that you reach out and grab it, with all the enthusiasm and excitement of child at play.  Then you have it: Opportunity.

And there you have it. My motivational gift to you. Happy St. Paddy's Day!

A Lesson Called Angelica

Early into the new year, as I struggle with new schedules and all the 2013 resolutions I've set for myself--toward improving me, my life, the life of my family, and the world in general--it seems an ideal time to revisit this lesson I learned (and wrote about) a few years back.

  A Lesson Called Angelica  

This posting finds me running around Target on a Saturday, grabbing things I would have picked up weeks ago, if I was a more organized woman.  It’s been one of those days, so I haven’t showered; I’m wearing yesterday’s t-shirt—it was right there—and no make-up.   I’m hungry, because I didn’t get any breakfast, nor have I had any caffeine.  But, I’m so late that I don't have five minutes to grab a cup from Starbucks—which has me a wee bit cranky, on top of it all.  Oh, and it’s been one of those years, too, so I’m all but busting out of my fat jeans—to my own thorough disgust.

I’m having just this horrid sort of morning, when, low behold, I see her: The woman I would be, if I could just get it together.  I always see her when I’m having a bad day—although she arrives in various forms. 

Today, she’s tall in a pair of sleek black leather boots--to make me feel even shorter and dumpier than usual--when I step into the checkout line behind her.  She’s thin and fit; she could be a dancer.  Her jeans are the expensive kind, made to look old, except the elaborate stitching on the pockets assures me they aren't.  Her hair is long and dark and smoothed.  On her face--a very pretty face--there rests a serene, almost sleepy, expression—a hint of smile, when she begins to unload the items from her cart. 

There are no children with her, but, as well as Christmas decorations, she buys a pair of tennis shoes—a boy’s size six—and various other things to convince me that, despite her knockout body, she is the mother of at least a few children.  I imagine them at home with their father.  It’s a big, beautiful, clean house—organized a la Pottery Barn, and the children are dressed for the day, although it is only ten in morning.  Perhaps they’re decorating a gingerbread house, or playing a board game—of course, they all get along.  There would be a dog, too, a golden lab probably, resting lazily at their feet.  Classical music plays softly in the background.      

I watch the woman I would be—if I could just get it together—as she, almost in slow motion, sips coffee from a travel mug monogramed with a curvy swooping A.  And on this morning, standing behind her--feeling old, sloppy and inadequate--a thought that has never occurred to me, suddenly does: A is a much better letter than C—not only is it a much fancier letter, it’s the very first in the alphabet. 

This is an irrational thought, I know, but, nevertheless, here and now, on this miserable morning—when I just can’t seem to get it together—it does occur to me, for a split second. 

Then an announcement from the overhead speakers interrupts my thoughts:“If there is an Angelica in the store, could she please come to the customer service desk?  Angelica, please come to Customer Service.”

She looks like an Angelica—she looks like an Angelina!--she could be Angelica, I think.  I watch for her reaction.  There is none—except, maybe, yes, she blinked.  She definitely blinked; a slow controlled blink of registration.  Maybe?  Maybe not. 

I watch A load her bags into her cart.  They are the environmentally friendly canvas bags, the same ones that I have forgotten in the trunk of my car—again! 

Why, oh why, can’t I get it together? 

The announcement sounds again.  A doesn’t blink this time, doesn’t even seem to hear it. 

I'm still watching her when she leaves, curious to see if she’ll go to Customer Service.  Her strides are long, but her steps are patient and composed.  Her black boots sound off delicious clicking noises.     

When she passes the exterior doors to move towards the service desk, I am satisfied—I knew I saw her blink—Angelica is a suitable name for the woman I would be--if I could just get it together. 

I check my watch.  I'm really late.  My frenzied state returns.  I bite on my thumb nail, as if this might speed up the cashier who's working at a snail's pace.

“HURRY UP!” 

The voice is loud and guttural and mean.  And it isn't mine. 

It’s Angelica’s.

She’s marching, fast and furiously, now, out the door, screaming over her shoulder at a boy who is approximately eleven and rushing behind her. 

“Now!”  

He's flustered, panicked.  He wants to obey, needs to obey, but he keeps glancing behind him.

“C’mon,” he calls to another boy of about seven. 

There’s terror in his eyes.   

Angelica is outside now. 

“C’mon,” the boy calls again to his brother, and the younger brother moves more quickly.  But he, too, keeps watching over his shoulder.

Another boy appears. 

It's a toddler.  He's following about ten steps behind the seven-year-old, who is five steps behind the eleven-year-old, who is almost out the door—although still looking back with that pitiful and panicked expression. 

Angelica is long gone. 

Then so is the eleven-year-old.

Then so is the seven-year-old.

Then, after a few brief seconds when he is alone in the store, so is the two-year-old.

And so is my notion of the perfect women, the women I could be, if I could only get it together  

***