On the way back from The BF’s this a.m., I made a gas station pit stop for some coffee.

It was one of those mornings, where I just couldn’t wait to get home and make my own. I needed a java jump start immediately … I’m sure you can relate.

I walked in, hoping I didn’t look too forlorn, with my hair wildly sticking out from every angle. Got my coffee and grabbed two {fake-ish} French Vanilla creamers — yeah, I was doing it up right.

Went to pay and the Indian guy behind the counter starts talking to me. Here I am attempting to still wake up and he wants a convo? Well. A convo he’ll get.

I made random talk about … coffee, imagine that. And sore muscles. Which then I was worried he might think I was alluding to something else. When all I was doing is saying what I was thinking … which then required an explanation, just like it does now. I’m sure he thinks I’m a total loco but that’s okay.

Explanation: I did a Boot Camp class at the Y with a friend yesterday morning. At 7a.m. Ummmm … is it me or do this many Americans get their asses up out of bed to make it to a 7a.m. Saturday workout class?

The room was packed! Of course I over did it. I love being physically challenged and will always rise to the occasion … although perhaps a bit too much rising occurred, because I can barely lift my arms now. That’s what I get for trying — note the trying — to appear like I am Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. Except I don’t think she did excessive amounts of pushups followed by every plank pose imaginable. Take that, Croft.

Anyway …

Gas station guy laughed at me. Definitely not with me, but at me. And asked what my name was.

I hesitated on telling him my actual real name and thought about giving a fake name. But then I just realized I was being all TC paranoid {that’s probably most fathers about their daughters} and if I’m going to be living with less fear and more openness, then to hell with it! I can give random gas station employees my name.

I then asked his name, because that’s what you do when you’ve already given yours, right?  He said what sounded like “Lucky”, but I assumed, since he was Indian and all, maybe it was “Laki” — and asked him to spell it.

For the record, I was feeling very smart for even asking how it was spelled, as though that was me showing my worldly knowledge of India.

Imagine how incredibly stupide I felt when he spelled rather slowly: L-U-C-K-Y.

Naturally I had to make reference to my stupidness. More laughing {at me }. Which prompted me asking him the only obvious thing to ask:

Do you feel lucky being lucky?

He briefly hesitated and in that moment of hesitation, I decided to leave. I decided I didn’t want to know his answer, because I was so hell bent on having it be yes that I wouldn’t be able to handle a no.

I mean, how the heck can you be named Lucky and not feel or be lucky?

I keep thinking about this … how powerful the names are that we are given. Are we more adept to live into and up to a name?

And if so, then what a great one to have … Lucky.

I feel like he’s another messenger and each time he says his name to people, he is saying:

Remember all these beautiful beautiful things you have in your life. How lucky you are.

And indeed, I am.