Epicness of Epic Proportions

Take a deep breath, here we go!

First off: I worked with Paulo Saturday morning. It was nice. Lovely even. Scrumtrulescent actually.

Our captain Elizabeth was unloading some flowers (all of our deliveries come either at 6:30 am or somewhere around 4 pm...except for the flowers. They come at like 11 am which is right when we're getting busy...) and I remarked on a specific bunch of 14 long-stem roses and how pretty they were. They are the prettiest flowers we sell, in my humble opinion, and Paulo chimed in that he wished we'd sell only 12 instead of 14 and then drop the price from what they are now, $10.99 to below $10. Then he dropped this adorable bomb: "As a recently single guy, I know how to buy enough for like 68 roses and only spend like 50 bucks. And it's like an armload," he then illustrated what an armload looked like--like he was hugging a 50-gallon barrel. The captain and I looked at each other in pretty much disbelief and she said, "I've gotten flowers before--but never so many." My response: "I've been looking for the wrong boys apparently."

Ok, so, we know he likes to give flowers (Check Plus Plus Plus Plus--especially since I've never received flowers in a romantic sense--I mean, I got carnations at Chop Point--but those were generally because the boys felt I was like a mother to them and boys should give their mothers flowers, and I got a corsage before prom, but sorry Andy, that just doesn't count. Especially since you're currently living with your girlfriend in Tacoma, Washington.). I had heard earlier in the day that he was possibly recently divorced...but that claim has yet to be confirmed. And in case you don't know, the man I loved, an unrequited love, for six years was recently divorced when I met him. That doesn't automatically mean Paulo's out, it just means there's a caution flag. Divorces are never pretty, emotional scars develop, and there has to be a REASON people get divorced. Either it's his fault, or he'll never trust another woman again on whatever front that it was her fault.

But I have to tell you, I'm a sucker for the hurt ones. The ones that I feel like I can remedy. The ones that just need a hug and lots of positive, loving language. Now, I don't think I can fix anyone. Not at all. We all know that doesn't work and only through Christ true healing can come. But I want to be someone's last grasp on humanity...the reason he fights on, you know? I'm such a sap. An unrealistic, head-in-the-clouds sap. And I love most every minute of it!

So, the day went on without a whole lot of excitement--I was super tired (leaving the store at 1 am just to be back at 7 am does not leave a fresh, rejuvenated Anna--not even the thought of being with Paulo knocked me out of exhaustion) and we had a lot of work to do. But it's nice when I can tell he feels like I'm an anchor on our crew and can count on me for anything. He asks my opinion. He speaks to me with respect. And he laughs at my jokes. Did I mention that?

So I clocked out and the next five minutes were magical: he was writing the milk order and I went over just to say goodbye to him (obviously) and since I needed to get a few things for my mom, I had taken off my TJ's shirt and was wearing my oftentimes undershirt--" 'Tis My Duty To Cruise Dat Hoopty." And it's an old "hoopty" on the front. It's from Jason (Harwell)'s collection of funny songs he calls Flavors. Anyway, that gained a chuckle from Paulo as he stated that if there were ever a shirt he didn't expect me to own, anything referencing a hoopty is it. Then he asked if I had to work tomorrow (Sunday) and I told him no, that I take Sundays off. He then asked, "Oh, are you religious?" I stated that indeed I was. That wasn't the reason I take Sundays off, but I do go to church on Sunday nights. So, he lost a few points with that question. Yes, he seemed cool with it, but yet it didn't seem to be a part of his life. Which is cool (this in part leads to what happened around midnight that night...but I'm getting ahead of myself), but it doesn't make my heart sing, you know? I then described how I needed a day off between my jobs. And then discussed if I could make enough at TJ's I could quit my day job, blah blah blah, I love TJ's, wouldn't mind it as a career (not that I'm for one second forsaking Rebuilt...but TJ's is something I enjoy while I'm trying to figure out how Rebuilt's gonna work). He then did my favorite thing he does when we speak: compliment me (hey, I'm not shallow, but compliments from men I find attractive makes the day go by just a little bit easier, ok?). He stated that clearly, I'm his favorite crew member and that when the full-timers got together, I'm at the top of the list of part-timers in training for full-time--which is nice. Very nice, actually. And last week when I ran the front office, all on my own, without much assistance was apparently the latest topic of conversation. He said everyone was really impressed--and now that he knows I'm serious about going full time, he's going to be my champion, my cheerleader for getting me promoted! Hooray! I have a champion. A sexy, chiseled champion!

Oh yeah, and earlier in the day he had left for his lunch break and came back in the store--I was in the office probably goofing off (I got tired of actually working) and he had a drink carrier that had a Gatorade for the guy that was closing books that night and a diet coke. For me. He brought me a diet coke from the gas station across the street. He was finishing off a slushie, which made me smile. I deconstructed the drink carrier and was about to put it in the trash when he said in a voice I've heard from frustrated little boys, "It took me five tries before I figured out how to assemble that thing. I had to throw them away each time in front of the clerk like an idiot." I apologized for destroying his masterpiece and asked if he wanted it put back together--but he stuck out his bottom lip and just shook his head.

Boys need to be careful when they act like adorable little boys and stick out their lips--I can't be held responsible for what happens to those lips. I just can't, ok?

Fast forward to right around midnight. I was sitting in bed (the exhaustion from earlier in the day had been abated by a two-hour nap) and had a moment of epiphany--I need to encourage this man. I need to be like his unrelenting Hosea (without the fact that his name isn't Gomer or that he's a prostitute or that I've been told to marry him). Just someone to bring a little hope and Jesus to him from a place without ulterior motives. And yes, my feelings for Paulo have changed since midnight Saturday night...I see him as someone who needs my love--but not necessarily eros (romantic) love, more of a philos (brotherly) love that leads to some agape (God) love.

I need to be this guy's unshakable grandmother.

And I decided I needed to write him a letter. I went into it with a little trepidation. See, I wrote a letter once. A letter that was so well written that I couldn't believe I had written it. A letter that declared my six-year-long love and a letter that kind of demanded a response from its recipient. And he didn't confess his love when he got it. Actually, he got defensive and said maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore. But somehow things have righted themselves and we're still friends (with my heart finally disentangled from any romantic lingerings having to do with him, thanks be to Jesus!). So, with that letter being so eloquently written, yet not received in the way that I had hoped, I wasn't SO fond of writing to Paulo. But I did. And I think it turned out well. I took camera-phone pictures of each page so I could transcribe each of them for you here. So here's the letter I wrote to Paulo:

Saturday May 17 2008
11:12 pm
Paulo--

First things first: no matter how much I scrub, I still have corn gunk underneath my nails and I just wanted to thank you for that (I shucked quite a few cases of corn before we opened Saturday...and put them on a display that he called "the most artistic corn display he'd ever encountered").

My cat Ginger is here, she says hi--well, by "hi" I mean she head butts my arm, attacks the end of the pen and is kneading my quilt in attempts to gain attention, but that's neither here nor there.

I've had a bit of an epiphanal (I have no idea if that's a word and if I truly truly cared I'd go to the other side of the room to get a dictionary--but I enjoy it even if it's a non-word, so I"m keeping it regardless.) day. So I told you earlier that I go to church--and it's true. But it's more than that, my relationship with Christ means more to me than anything, even Coke Zero--and that's a lot.

But I'm not here to preach or make you uncomfortable. I'm here to tell you that God often nudges me to new horizons, often awkward ones, to make me grow as a person.

And I feel like I'm at one such precipice now (I would have written precipices but again, I don't know if that's a word and I actually care about this one---so instead of looking like an idiot, I switched the sentence around to make it work for the word I DO know--score one for my liberal arts B.A.!).

I don't write this to make you feel awkward, but I just feel prompted that there are some things you need to hear, so might as well hear them from me.

I feel like we've built a nice rapport over the past several weeks. I think you're hilarious and I'm flattered that you laugh at my inane and often nonsensical jokes. It makes more that much more enjoyable when I know there are people there that I appreciate and who appreciate me.

Elizabeth and I spoke later about our (well, your) discussion/passion over the roses and we mused that it's sad that you revealed you're recently single.

I don't know your life, nor should I, and I certainly am not trying to get into your business--so I'll just invite you to see me as a lot of my friends do--as their grandmother. I'm an 87-year-old woman with 32 grandchildren stuck in a 26-year-old single woman's body. I just have this passion inside of me to nurture and take care of people--to encourage and to know that people are happy. Here lies my point--I have a Grandmother message for you, Mr. (insert correctly spelled last name here) (see? I spelled it right!) <--yes, that last parenthetical statement was included in the letter. I write non of this for any ulterior motive except for one: to make you smile: You, sir, are fantastic. Your "chiseled" grin is infectious. You, too, have a gift of encouragement and it is certainly a lifting of the morale for our entire crew. I have heard nothing but positive things about you since you came to our store. You are valued. Not just for being good at your job, but for being a swell guy. I can tell you are a sensitive (in the most manly way possible, of course) man and it's heartwarming. You speak of your car in loving terms and you were worried to tell your bear story for fear that people wouldn't believe you and that's just straight, unadulterated adoreableness (too bad there's no speel check in handwritten letters, eh?) I'm sorry to hear that you're recently single. No matter the circumstances, it's got to suck. Since I don't know the other side/person to your relationship, I will wholeheartedly take your side. Unless of course you killed her and wear her skin around your house. Then that'd just be weird. I mean, I'll still be your friend, but only in crowded and well-lit public places. But I digress, my point this evening is to bring you cheer: I find you amusing (in the laugh with you, not at you sense), I like the way you do business, I think your sense of integrity is inspiring, I like to listen to what you have to say, I like working alongside of you and find you utterly respectable and an all-around stand up chap.

Being away from your family and working the crazy amount of hours that you do, I don't know if you get to hear these things often or at all--so today was the day.

Today is the day for you to hear that you're worthy, you matter and that people think you're terrific--even if you wear some dead girl's skin around the house and shopping on the weekends.

I was telling a friend earlier this evening of my intention to write this and a caution flag was thrown--too often my urge to encourage and nurture gets crossed over into the romantic realm and I appreciate her caution for I often jump without thinking and end up somewhere I never intended on being. But this letter is written with one intent and it's for the betterment of your being. So there. Hope your well being has been bettermented! (ha!)

And I realize that grandmas are supposed to bake cookies and all that--but it's after midnight now and I'm not sure I've ever made cookies from scratch before (hey! my mom was/is a good cook/baker and I never needed to bake my own when I could just ask her. I'm a spoiled mama's girl. I get it. You can stop judging me now.) and I have no idea if I even have all I would need here. And, as I've mentioned, it's ater 12 am and nothing good is coming from these worn out and tired motor skills. So, I will abstain from getting out the mixer and turning on the oven. I'll think of something to accompany this letter, as you'll need some kind of sugary sustainence to to wade through my extreme verbiosity (there goes that need for a dictionary again).

Sometimes people just need to hear that they are whole, worthy, and loved.

So today is your day. Sorry you're having to work on your day off. I'll see you later this week I suppose. Hopefully you'll get to reschedule your rib eye boys night and we'll all get to go see some baseball.

Peace out, homeslice.
Anna

And I forgot to give him a sugary snack along with the letter. Oops. So that's where I currently stand with Paulo. I'll give you an update once there is one!

So I'll have to write more about the movie that I watched before I wrote the letter plus what happened at the Block Party at my church later--it's taken me entirely more than my lunch hour to just write thus far.

Enjoy!