The Mysterious Mr. Milkman

You weren't even on my radar. I had no idea you existed. You would enter into my little bubble, briefly, for about 5 minutes on the perimeter of my consciousness. For weeks, there was no routine when you appeared. There were always two of you, and you were the quiet one. Again, I only noticed that because of the loudness of the guy with you, and for a split second I had the thought that he was flirting with my coworker. Still, I had only been at this job for about a month at that point. 

You were a blur. Until the day you came crashing into focus. It was a normal day for me, like any other. Only I was actually a little stressed because I WAS running a couple minutes behind my usual schedule. I was walking toward the building doors. I noticed the truck in my periphery, but paid it no mind. And then a voice, "Running a couple minutes late today, Sera?" 

What? How did you know my name? And even more, how did you know I actually was slightly behind my schedule? Have you been paying attention? For how long? 

You used my name 3 or 4 times that morning. You made a point to call me over and tell me information about the product. You said "Have a good day, Sera". And then I heard you use it again with my coworkers on your way out. 

It took me a week and one more "good morning, Sera" to ask my coworkers if they knew your name. Yes, I was still thinking about the odd encounter. It drove me nuts that you knew my name somehow and I didn't know yours. 

I've never been good at using people's names. Call it a remnant of my incredibly shy childhood. I was the person who would always make sure the person I was addressing somehow knew I was talking to them, so I could just start talking. Not with close friends and family of course, but anyone outside of that. I don't know why, but it always makes me feel vulnerable. Or something. It's hard to explain, but I struggle with it. Only recently, within the last several weeks, I've decided to try using people's names. To help remember them and to be more personable. Saying things like, "Thank you, Tiffany,” to the teller at the bank. On the rare occasions people have done that to me, I’ve felt more human and seen and it was a really positive experience. I want to do that for people. But, each time, I find my heart pounding in anticipation. Why is this so nerve-wracking? 

It took me another two weeks to ask you for your name. My coworkers didn't know it. You've never made a point to greet them the way you have started this weekly, "good morning, Sera,” thing. I was coming out of the walk-in cooler and nearly ran into you. On a whim, I just blurted out the question. You told me it was Andrew. Like the experts tell us, I immediately repeated it out loud. Only, no one ever says what to do after that, when you only casually learn someone's name in passing, so I just found myself awkwardly walking away. And you went about your work, leaving me to the newfound hyper awareness of your presence.  

Andrew. Your name is Andrew. I had to use it now. I wanted to reciprocate. For whatever reason, you have singled me out. I still question why you have singled me out. It took me a while, and lots of questioning my coworkers, to believe you were actually doing it. But it was basically confirmed that one Wednesday. As I pulled into my parking spot, I saw your truck and immediately started mentally preparing myself. I was nervous, but I was all set to say, "Hi Andrew!" I was going to do it. It had already been two weeks since I learned your name. I got too anxious before. This time, I would. But as I was walking into work, I saw you in your truck. Your back was turned to me. In that split second, my brain convinced me that I couldn't be 100% certain it was you. And that would have been absolutely mortifying if it wasn't. So I chickened out and headed into the building. But as the door swung closed behind me, I heard you call out, "What, you're not even gonna say hi??" 

You were waiting for it. You noticed when it was missing. I turned around and yelled, “Good morning!” to you, but I kicked myself for STILL not saying your name. Why is this so hard? Why am I so nervous? What a silly little game my mind plays. 

But now I know you were looking forward to it. So, next time. No excuses. Sometimes I see you on Fridays when I'm at a different school. This particular Friday, I was in luck.

There I was, minding my own business. I actually didn't think I would see you because of which school I was sent to. But there I was, sliding corn dogs into little paper bags. My back was to the doors. The kitchen was empty, lunch ladies on break, when suddenly I heard the beep...beep...beep... A truck backing up to the doors. "Could it be?" I wondered. Instantly, my body completely betrayed me. I had built up the anticipation for this so much, it was insane. My heart started pounding out of my chest. I felt my face flush. My hands were so shaky, I almost dropped several corn dogs. What in the world?? 

The doors opened. I dropped a corn dog into another paper bag. Casually, I turned to take a look at the commotion. My gaze landed on the stack of blue milk crates, sweeping from the bottom to the top. It was taller than you. Then you stepped out from behind them. Our eyes met. I saw the split second it took you to recognize me at a different school. Heart nearly in my throat, I finally blurted out the words, "Hi, Andrew!" And I think I saw the smile in your eyes. 

But, this isn't a story about my feelings for you. Or even about how we met. Despite all those fluttery butterflies I can't really explain, you remain a fun/silly workplace infatuation that brightens my mid-week and gives me something to look forward to. No, this is actually a story about how your name, and more specifically, saying "Hi, Andrew!” came to be an empowering phrase that has helped me overcome other challenges. 

That same day, I needed to face another anxiety: shopping at Costco by myself. I have never been to the giant, crowded, chaotic warehouse all by my lonesome. It's intimidating! I know it seems like such a small and silly thing, but after these weeks of finding the courage to say your name (and all of the subtle background mental growth that had to take place), everything culminated into this moment when I was driving home and suddenly thought, "pfft, I can brave Costco. I said 'Hi Andrew' today!"

So, Mr. Milkman. Andrew. You don't really know me. Who knows how long we will only say, “Hi,” to each other once (or rarely twice) a week during a 5 minute window as you stack hundreds of mini milk cartons into the fridge. But in some strange, indirect and enjoyable way, you were a part of the next crucial step of my personal growth, as small as that step may seem. And for that, I thank you. 

Some part of me hopes I get to tell you this someday. But the other part will be content if I only ever know you as Andrew, the mysterious Mr. Milkman.