Put a bandaid over my mouth

I overlook the glaring gaps in my personality. It’s my warped self-perception mirror—everyone has one—but sometimes a moment of brightness illuminates the rusted spot and I see the flaw for what it authentically is: an accident in my personality.

My friend at work just told me, “I wore a bandaid on my face and no one said anything to me about it. You know why? It was a Thursday and you weren’t here.” She was teasing me, pointing out that I point out the obvious, but it was true. If I had been there, I definitely would have asked about the bandaid.

“But I do it out of love!” I called after her.

“I know you do, and it’s out of love that I tell you that you do it,” she replied.

It’s true that if I inquired about the bandaid on her face I would really mean, “Are you hurt?” I wonder if I say it that way though? I think I do. And my friend, saying she tells me what I do out of love, I think that’s her way of saying, “I wouldn’t tease you to your face if I actually thought you were a jerk.” And she’s right. Who but the most unloving would point out someone’s flaws in a jeering way?

I think “accident” is the perfect word for gaps in my civility because they’re unintentional. They just blossom like sprongy moss in the dark corners, sending out spores. The spores populate in my mouth and exhale, “What’s that bandaid on your face?” It’s completely unconscious. I’m not aware of the annoying statement of the obvious mold, it just happens sometime. I like to think I’m naïve, not willfully stupid.

I prevented a crash of word mold onto someone’s shoes just a few weeks ago, and I was proud of myself for being mature.

I stepped into the elevator, and there was already a man riding in the car. I’m always curious about the people in my building and what offices they work in, so I gave him a casual lookover. Honestly, he was one of the best-dressed men I’ve ever seen. His suit was cut of smooth cloth so exquisitely—like nothing I’ll ever afford—and he looked crisp and perfect. I started at the collar of his shirt, looked at the perfect drape of his shoulders, the fall of his waist, and the delicately diveted cuff of his trousers --- and then his shoes.

His shoes were equally perfect in appropriateness to his suit, but they were the largest shoes I’d ever seen. The man stood quite petite, not much taller than my 5 foot 2, but his feet were of an extraordinary length. The shoes must have been custom made, or else I couldn’t imagine how any shoe would ever fit those long, thin, narrow feet.

My thoughts raced frenetically over the accidental words I wanted to say, “Those shoes must be custom!” “You have the biggest feet I’ve ever seen!” “I love your suit!” “How can you walk with those giant feet???”

And … I said nothing. I thought, “Remember how much it hurt all through childhood, every day of your life, when you tried to shrink and not get noticed, praying that this would be the day that no one looked at you and made fun of your huge nose? Remember that feeling of dread? Remember the horror of being physically different? That guy went through it too. That guy’s big nose is his big feet. He’s heard everything you could possibly say, and all you could possibly do is hurt him and remind him of every time he was teased for his giant feet.”

And … I said nothing. The light of self-perception opened, and I held in the accidental spores of incivility. I looked back up to his face, into his eyes, and smiled, sincerely.

I’ve always regretted that I didn’t tell him I loved his suit. And that I didn't point and say, "I have a big nose."