things taken for granted

I woke up this morning feeling like someone's punching bag. I'm not complaining; far from. These are like birthing pains: easily forgiven for the end product. I spent eight hours last night labouring over the new condo and my oft-ignored upper-body was screaming at me this morning for it. Jadek (the bastard) is feeling "fine" while I can't reach above shoulder-level.

Knowing this, you can understand my slow pace at work today. I especially dreaded having to reach for any top shelf books. So, when I got a question for "pathophysiology" books, I was already thinking about how we probably won't have anything of use. While my slow catalogue took its time to think about my request, I asked my customer if it was for personal or professional use (not because I'm curious, but because I didn't want to hand her a health manual when she's looking for a diet book...librarians out there understand). In her lovely Nigerian accent, she said she was studying for an equivalency exam. In our brief walk over to the shelves, she told me about her worries over tripping our alarm by taking a book through that she'd checked out yesterday but had brought with her to study today. She was anxious about anyone calling the police or, worse, taking away her newly issued library card. I reassured her that neither of those things would happen. When she asked if she could take out all three books I showed her, even though she already had one, I replied that she could take up to fifty items out on her card. She tells me: "in the library back home, we may take out one book at a time."

I cannot imagine worrying about the police responding to a book alarm, or a library so small that you can only take out one book at a time. As she flipped through Pathophysiology for Health Professionals by Barbara Gould, I couldn't help but notice the scars that crisscrossed the backs of hands. What had brought her here? Had she been one of the privileged elite to receive a high-class education, the scars a remnant of happy childhood adventures? Had she escaped a terrible existence and those scars were her badges of honour? I don't know - it was probably neither. Here I was, complaining about sore muscles I'd gotten by cleaning my condo in safe suburban Canada. My biggest worry right now is if they would get my washer/dryer in by the week's end. I take a lot of things for granted: life, liberty, friends, and freedom. It only takes three soft-spoken "thank you"s to make me appreciate them all over again.