The circle of lifeOf a pen.
Of a waiter.
When I arrived home tonight and began pulling the day’s collection of stuff from my pockets, I realized, to my horror, I had stolen the waiter’s pen.
My first thought was, “I should drive back and give it to him.”
My second thought was, “I gave him a very good tip.”
Which was followed by, “Does that make me elitist?”
I honestly considered driving back across town to give the waiter his pen back. It was a nice pen, and I am the pen guy.
In meetings I have the pens arrayed in their rainbow order (I get called out by some co-workers if I don’t) so that I can color-code my notes. As a very visual (and hyperactive) learner, color coding helps me remember what I write. Whether I ever look at it again or not, when asked a question about the meeting, I can mentally scan my notes for certain color text and recall what was discussed.
I am also a pen-snob. I like only certain kinds of pens based on their size and the feel when writing. My handwriting can indicate that I should have been a doctor, but with the correct pen, my writing actually presents a certain elegance on the page. Such is the writing I imagine when I mentally glance across the pages to refresh my memory.
Within seconds, I decided that the waiter had most likely snagged the pen from some poor soul who had left it on the table after signing the credit card receipt, so I did not drive back and leave it there. It will be a pen that will be set out on my desk that some student will take shortly after the start of the school year.
That is the way things work.
It is the circle of life.
Of a pen.
Of a waiter.
In a moderately priced cheap restaurant.