I never expected a slice of pepperoni pizza to reveal how quickly my nervous system could forget that it was safe. My daughter and I had gone to Costco for one reason, to buy her a paddleboard. I wanted to give her a gift that invited play and delight into her summer. We went straight to the paddleboard section, grabbed the box, and on our way leaving we stopped by the food court for lunch. She found us a table and settled into her phone, completely unaware of what was about to unfold.
I bought a slice of pepperoni pizza for her and a hot dog for me. On my way back to the table and in front of everyone standing waiting for their food order, the greasy pizza slice slid off of the plate and onto the concrete floor. Several people gasped, "Oh..." with the kind of compassion reserved for someone else's unfortunate moment. My dignity was still intact and I simply picked up the pizza, took it to the trashcan to throw it away, and reached for some paper napkins to clean up the grease on the floor.
I went back over to the greasy spot and started into a squat when the fifty-eight year old legs that had taken me on a seven mile hike the day before began to protest. I knew I couldn't squat any lower. I also knew I couldn't reach the grease. For a split second I froze. I had two choices: Listen to my body...or ignore it. I chose to ignore it. My legs answered for me. I simply tipped backward onto the concrete like Humpty Dumpty. In an instant, shame overtook me as the same people who had said, “Oh…” about my pizza slice were now reaching over to help me off the floor.
As I got to my feet, I was holding my breath and tuning out the whole room. It's in moments like these that all my self-compassion seems to disappear. I forget that my body isn't trying to embarrass me. It's trying to protect me. I didn’t even say “thank you” to the kind people who helped me off the floor because I had gone limbic and lost access to language. All I wanted to do was get to the table with my daughter and hide. I wouldn’t even let myself go back to the wall where the mustard was because I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone who had seen what happened.
I found my daughter, told her everything that had just taken place, and we belly laughed. Then she told me about a time she slipped on icy front steps while strangers watched. Without trying to fix me, she joined me in my humanity.
We finished our lunch, loaded the paddleboard into the car, and drove home as though nothing extraordinary had happened. But something had happened. My body had settled. I could breathe again. The people in Costco were no longer a threat, just people going about their day.
I had gone to Costco hoping to delight in my daughter. Instead, she delighted in me. She didn't rescue me from embarrassment. She simply met me there. That was enough for my nervous system to remember that I was safe.
