When I saw a mango nectarine (looks basically like a nectarine but is the color of the inside of a mango), I knew I had to try it. A mango nectarine! How astounding! How unique! It was obviously going to be one of the coolest things I’d ever tasted.
It tasted pretty much like a nectarine. I tried to fool myself into thinking it at least smelled slightly like a mango, but the power of suggestion wasn’t working its full magic. I couldn’t believe I’d paid $4.99 per pound for a nectarine the color of the inside of a mango. I’d much rather pay that much for a peach the color of the inside of a mango.
Later that day, I saw a mother sitting with her daughter. They were both decked out in tourist attire, complete with Toys R Us and M&Ms World (or whatever the overpriced store that isn’t Dylan’s Candy Bar is called) bags. The girl was eating a Kit Kat bar, and I had to wonder: had she looked at this regular candy bar at the store and thought, A Kit Kat bar in New York City! How astounding! How unique!? And was she, once she bit into it and discovered it was exactly like every other more modestly priced chocolate bar in the country, disappointed? Or was she so enamored with the novelty of her experience that she didn’t mind that it was something completely ordinary? Did it seem like it tasted better because it was special to her?
Later that night, I gave subway directions to a man holding a piece of paper with the address of a homeless shelter on it. I didn’t need to wonder whether, that night, when he arrived and was given a hard cot to rest his head on, he was appreciative of the bed. I didn’t need to ask whether he thought, A roof over my head tonight! How astounding! How unique! Because of course it was just a regular bed like every other bed. Of course it wasn’t astounding or unique in anybody else’s eyes. But he had done what he needed to do that day to get it, and it was his for the night. Sometimes, that’s all that matters.