Cleanup on Aisle Four

Marcus Aurelius was Emperor of Rome.

He commanded armies.

He governed millions of people.

He wrote Meditations.

Two thousand years later, apparently, the motherfucker works at a discount store.

And his shopping cart has one fucked wheel.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Welcome to Stoicism.

Discount Store Marcus Aurelius

I accidentally invented Discount Store Marcus Aurelius tonight.

Or ChatGPT did.

Or the gin did.

I don't fucking know anymore.

It doesn't matter.

What matters is that somehow this ridiculous motherfucker pushing a broken shopping cart through a discount store has become one of the most accurate descriptions of Stoicism I have ever encountered.

Not because he doesn't care.

That's the mistake people keep making.

Marcus cares.

Marcus gives many fucks.

He cares about humanity.

He cares about people.

He cares about doing the right thing.

He cares whether people show up.

He cares whether people understand him.

He cares whether the goddamn transcription system can pronounce his fucking name.

It cannot.

I say:

Discount Store Marcus Aurelius.

The transcription says:

Discount Markers.

Then:

Marcus Reyes.

Then:

Marcus Ferreira.

Then some other fucking person who apparently wandered into the store and stole the emperor's name tag.

Marcus would strongly prefer the transcription get his fucking name right.

It doesn't.

Clack.

Humans Are Humans

This is where Stoicism gets flattened into nonsense.

People hear detachment and think:

I don't care.

No.

I care deeply.

I can care deeply about somebody and disconnect completely.

Those are not contradictory statements.

I can want somebody to call me.

They don't call.

I can want somebody to understand me.

They don't understand.

I can want somebody to ask questions.

They say:

“Huh?”

I can wish my family behaved differently.

They don't.

I can wish humanity communicated better.

Evidence remains fucking discouraging.

None of that means I stop caring.

It means something considerably simpler:

Humans are humans.

They will do whatever the fuck humans do.

I have opinions about that.

I have preferences.

Sometimes I have extremely strong preferences.

But my preference is not a remote-control device for another human being.

Marcus knows this.

The customer walks past him doing some completely inexplicable human shit.

Marcus watches.

He considers intervening.

Then asks:

“Is this actually my fucking problem?”

No.

Clack.

Keep pushing.

The Broken Wheel

The wheel is important.

Every shopping cart has that one motherfucker.

You know the wheel.

Three wheels understand the assignment.

The fourth has rejected civilization.

You push left.

It goes right.

You push forward.

It begins vibrating like it's receiving instructions directly from Satan.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

You would prefer the wheel worked properly.

This is an entirely reasonable preference.

Unfortunately, the wheel has not requested your opinion.

Now you have choices.

You can stand in the parking lot screaming at the wheel.

You can explain to the wheel why its behavior is unacceptable.

You can tell the wheel that the other three wheels are functioning correctly.

You can send the wheel a fourteen-message explanation of proper shopping-cart behavior.

The wheel remains fucked.

Or:

Clack.

Push the goddamn cart.

This is not approval of the wheel.

This is not forgiveness of the wheel.

This is not pretending the wheel isn't fucked.

The wheel is objectively being an asshole.

But you have groceries to buy.

Clack.

Preference Is Not Jurisdiction

This might be the whole fucking philosophy.

I would prefer things were different.

Okay.

Are they?

No.

Can I change them?

Sometimes.

Then change them.

Can I not?

Then what exactly are we fucking doing here?

That doesn't mean:

Stop caring.

It means:

Stop confusing caring with jurisdiction.

I can care deeply about another person.

I do not control whether they show up.

I can care deeply about humanity.

I do not control humanity.

I can care about the system.

I do not control the system.

I can care about the fucking shopping cart.

Apparently I don't even control all four wheels.

Clack.

The emperor understands.

Then Something Spills on Aisle Four

And this is where the metaphor got even better.

Because acceptance can become its own kind of bullshit.

You can start saying:

“Not within my control.”

about everything.

Other people?

Not my control.

The economy?

Not my control.

Politics?

Not my control.

The weather?

Not my control.

Humanity?

Definitely not my fucking control.

And eventually you're standing in the middle of the store doing absolutely nothing while quoting Epictetus.

Then the speaker comes on.

“Cleanup on aisle four.”

Marcus looks around.

Surely somebody else will handle it.

Nobody moves.

Marcus considers the situation.

“Is aisle four within my jurisdiction?”

Manager:

“Marcus, you fucking work here.”

Marcus:

“Fuck.”

And there it is.

The other half of Stoicism.

Clean the Fucking Aisle

Stoicism isn't an excuse for abdication.

If something isn't yours, stop trying to control it.

But if something is yours?

Get the fucking mop.

Your actions?

Yours.

Your words?

Yours.

Your decisions?

Yours.

Your behavior?

Yours.

Your responsibilities?

Unfortunately, also fucking yours.

Somebody else's opinion of you?

Not yours.

Somebody else's willingness to understand you?

Not yours.

Somebody else's decision to call?

Not yours.

But whether you say what you mean?

Yours.

Whether you show up?

Yours.

Whether you clean aisle four when you're the motherfucker assigned to aisle four?

Very much yours.

You don't get to stand beside the spill whispering:

“I accept reality as it is.”

Motherfucker.

The mop is right there.

Meeting People Where They Are

This somehow became part of tonight too.

I kept saying:

“Meet me where I am.”

And eventually I realized I didn't mean:

Understand me.

I don't need you to understand me.

Half the fucking time I don't understand me.

I mean:

Be curious.

Ask a question.

That's it.

You don't understand what I said?

Ask.

You don't understand why I reacted that way?

Ask.

You don't understand what I believe?

Ask.

You don't need to arrive where I am.

You don't need a map.

You don't need fifteen years of context.

You don't need the linked list currently masquerading as my brain.

Just fucking engage.

Tonight I did Bible study with two people I love.

We talked about Romans.

Paul.

Jesus.

Seneca.

Nero.

Claudius.

Roman society.

Barbarians.

Dan fucking Carlin.

Why?

Because somebody asked a question.

Then somebody answered.

Then somebody asked another question.

Nobody had to understand everything before the conversation started.

The questions were the conversation.

That is meeting somebody where they are.

Not comprehension.

Curiosity.

Just Fucking Be

Then, because apparently the universe had not finished writing this fucking essay, I matched with somebody on Tinder.

I told her her bio made me laugh.

She said she'd spent time on it.

I told her:

“You shouldn't have. Be yourself.”

She replied:

“That's what I spend time on.”

I didn't understand.

So I asked:

“You spend time on what exactly?”

She answered:

“On being myself. It's a bit difficult on these apps :)”

Oh.

There it fucking is again.

I didn't understand.

I asked.

She answered.

Nobody died.

No tribunal was convened.

Nobody had to defend their existence.

Two humans exchanged information.

Fucking revolutionary technology.

And underneath that exchange was another stupidly simple idea:

Just fucking be.

Be yourself.

Say what you mean.

Ask what you don't understand.

Let somebody misunderstand you.

Let somebody walk away.

Let somebody stay.

Prefer one outcome over another.

Care deeply.

Laugh.

Cry.

Get disappointed.

Ask questions.

Answer them.

And keep moving.

Cleanup on Aisle Four

The announcement comes again.

“Cleanup on aisle four.”

Marcus sighs.

He looks around the discount store.

Humanity is everywhere.

One customer is arguing with a cashier about a coupon that expired in 2017.

Another has abandoned frozen chicken beside the socks.

Somebody's child is licking the shopping cart.

Two people are having a political argument beside discounted garden furniture.

The transcription system has changed Marcus Aurelius's name to Marcus Rodriguez.

The wheel is still fucked.

Clack.

Marcus would strongly prefer almost everything about this situation were different.

Unfortunately, most of it is outside his jurisdiction.

Then he looks at aisle four.

That one isn't.

“Fuck.”

He grabs the mop.

The emperor of Rome begins pushing his broken shopping cart toward the spill.

Clack.

He still cares.

Clack.

Humanity remains baffling.

Clack.

The wheel remains fucked.

Clack.

Aisle four still needs cleaning.

And Discount Store Marcus Aurelius keeps pushing the goddamn cart.

CLACK.

FUCKING.

CLACK.