No Right to Complain

When I worked downtown, I would see a gentlemen several times during the week because he parked in the same garage. 

His smile was infectious and I never saw him without it. His journey to his van was always swift and the few times we exchanged words he was kind and forgiving. 

Today I'm sitting here on this pretty fall afternoon missing my own cooking. I've put in my first week back at the new job sporting my laptop in a backpack and climbing the stairs to the second floor where I sit among about 50 other techie type people for 40 hours a week. 

Supposedly the building doesn't have an elevator. I'm sure it does somewhere, probably in the warehouse below where my badge doesn't let me in. 

So I move my crutches to my left side and use my right hand to take one step at a time. 

The saying is, "good foot goes to heaven, bad foot goes to hell". If that confuses you, try it the wrong way going up or down the stairs with a surgically enhanced foot on the wrong step. 

Bob has been waiting on me. Bringing dinner home as its next to impossible to stand on one foot and cook. Even though I'm tempted. I'm quickly untempted when I stand long. Some days are okay, some days my left foot wants absolutely no weight bearing on it.  I can screw up the tendon that was used to having a meaningless tumor wrapped around it if I put weight on it too soon. 

So I want to whine. 

But then I remember that smiling guy that I used to see in the parking garage. I noticed him the first time when I saw him on the street and I went into the glass enclosure where the elevator and stairs were.  I hadn't realized he was coming in and I instantly apologized for not holding the door open for him. 

He smiled and said that it was not problem and he pushed the button for the elevator and wheeled his motorized wheelchair quickly into the closing doors. 

He made it look like his life was a breeze.  Maybe he complained at home,but I doubt it.