Help...

...I think I have a problem. I like to help people. But that is not the issue here. I like to help them even when they don't want it. That, my dear, is my headache.

Just the other day somebody on the subway asked me for directions. Being next to clueless about the less frequented (and not so happening) corners of NYC, I cringed, felt myself curl up, and with a profoundly apologetic voice said the 3 golden words- "I don't know".

I don't think she cared. She asked another, got her directions and moved on with life. I, on the other hand, felt myself muse over it for a while. I almost felt accountable for not being able to help her right away. Strange? Psychotic even I'd say. And I felt the urge to help someone, anyone, to make up for that failed endeavour.

After a few precious and baffled minutes spent on this thought, I shelved it with the belief that I find true gratitude in being able to assist people. Perhaps I like to collect "Thank you"s  or if I were in the UK, the "Thank you darling"s, and store them in my appreciation chest. In time I can re-vist these treasures and feel smug about my unique collection. Perhaps I have a thing for content looking faces or slightly grateful smiles. Perhaps it's my attempt at a good-deed-a-day lifestyle. Perhaps it is my way of searching for acceptance in the world. Perhaps, there is no philosophy to it and I am simply crazy.

But I do it unfailingly. I am not a saint, I do have my evil streaks. But those immoral moments are laced with a pressing need to do some good. Do anything, anywhere. Help someone cross a road although they may be fully capable of doing so on their own. Tell someone the time only to notice they are wearing a watch. Answer someone's question and then hide the blushed face of an eavesdropper. Pick up something one dropped only to realize they were littering.

Queer hobby, I admit.

I am a terrorists' nightmare.
I am a social workers' stash.
If you see me extend my hand,
Get up and dash!