Ten years ago, we rescued Ida, a sweet black lab with the highly unhelpful backstory of being somewhere between 2 and 10 years old, and the heads up that she wasn’t a fan of dogs charging at her (which could apply to most dogs).

Ida was our first rescue, and ignoring everyone’s advice, two days later we put her in the car and moved to Utah. During the trip west, Ida bonded with our pug Esther, as pugs only charge a freshly made bed.

Our first day in Park City we walked along on a trail, sniffing sage plants under a crisp blue sky, when a piercing bark rounded a corner attached to a 100 lb Saint Bernard. Fur and spittle flying, with each bound he closed in on us like a freight train. Ida stiffened, hairs bristling like a hedgehog.

“Don’t worry” yelled a woman repeating the mantra of all carless dog owners, “He is friendly!”

We pulled Ida behind us, as she snarled and shook. Kris yelled “Our dog is not friendly.” Not adjusting their gait, or apparently pausing their intriguing conversation, a minute later, a couple caught up.

The woman said casually “Park City rules are unfriendly dogs wear a yellow leash.”

I could have simply replied, “thank you,” but complicating situations is one of my spiritual powers, and Cujo was now trying to make Pug Bernards with Esther.

I filtered out my first reply of “What color do clueless dog owners wear?” and chose door number two, “Cujo here only charges dogs without yellow leashes?”

“Who is Cujo?” she asked, “Oh Barney? He is just being friendly.”

Correcting and convincing are my default, but, I managed to stop myself before launching into a pointless diatribe of feigned superiority as Kris swiftly guided us down the trail.

The delivery of the yellow leash rule was less than hospitable, but Ida wore one after that day. If only they had similar color codes for people. Like chatty cashie’s for example.

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Dearie, you need to relax

–

A month or so after the yellow leash incident, I was peacefully grocery shopping at 5:30 a.m.

That time of my life was pointless rush-rush. I was up at the crack of dawn to save time. Quick, multitask what you’re multitasking. Make one trip like a sherpa instead of four. All the scurrying gave me a sense of purpose, but never in two decades of futile rush-rush did anyone hand me a ten blade or call me “Doctor.” Early morning shopping has fewer people, and a lack of Happy Shopper Spotify Playlist. I love roaming a quiet, beautiful grocery store when I have time to read labels, and consider exactly how to make an anti-gravity cake with a box mix.

After an hour of blissfully cramming my cart with necessities and niceties, I found the only open cashier.

Head down and mind on breakfast, I loaded up the belt. If I packed fast, I’d be outta there in 10 minutes, and easily make the boys ski race at 8. Rushing is fun, you save time so later you can do more!

“Hello Dearie,” I heard as I snapped open my bags.

I braced. Never, in the history of the world, has there ever been a speedy checkout person who greeted customers with “Hello Dearie.”

Betty, my checkout person, was a petite woman of a certain age, with white hair in pin curlers.

“Bananas,” Betty held them up, “have lots of potassium, are you potassium deficient?”

“Pardon?” I said.

“Are you potassium deficient?”

“Um, not that I know of …” I trailed off.

“Well, you can always make a nice banana loaf. I like me a good banana loaf.” Betty said, giving me a wink and weighing the bananas.

Beep. Elapsed time, 31 seconds.

“Ok Betty,” I thought. “Less winking and more scanning.” Betty then went on to critique my kimchi and oat milk choices, while I stood there, trying not to visibly twitch.

“Oat milk,” Betty giggled, “So you’re one of those people. Don’t like cows, huh?” Betty asked.

“Actually, I do like cows. Listen,” I said, trying to look less pissed and more pleasant, “I need to be somewhere by 8.”

“No, Dearie, you need to relax.”

Beep. Reach.

Back in my rush-rush days, when my nervous system was jacked up so I could train dragons or lead a covert op to save the multiverse, nothing bristled me like a blowfish quicker than someone saying relax.

Betty snapped me back.

“Cashew yogurt, what will they think of next?”

Beep. Reach.

Thich Nhat Hahn says presence is every moment. I started regretting my present decision to replenish my spice cabinet.

“Vietnamese Cinnamon, how exotic, but woo-hoo they are making a fortune off of you!” Betty scanned it like a vase from the Ming dynasty.

Beep. Reach. “Gala apples, so crispy.” Betty said.

Beep. Reach. Beep. Reach. I started zoning out.

My inner calm and persistent impatience were both campaigning in my head.

Inner calm’s slogan was Lean into the discomfort.

Persistent impatience’s slogan was Chasing tomorrow, today!

Neither candidate had my vote.

Then it hit me: Betty and Ida had more in common than old fashioned names. Both had their own baggage, their own quirks, and both needed compassion. And just like Ida’s yellow leash, Betty was signaling something too–her loneliness, her desire for connection.

I watched Betty read my toothpaste ingredients and decided to lean in and miss the ski race. I settled and started chatting back. Betty shared she was single, had no friends, and her social interactions happened by the checkout conveyor belt.

We treat our dogs better than each other. Ida’s yellow leash declared this dog has baggage, give her space. Not all dogs like other dogs. Do you like everyone you meet? Exactly.

Expecting a human to give you some slack is another story. What if we could at least signal our daily vibe? Imagine a universal color chart of moods to relay your state of mind. Irritated? Wear red. Feeling groovy, wear purple. Betty might wear blue to signal: lonely person who could use a chat.

In the end, we’re all just trying to make it through before we check out, don’t rush, just lean in.