[Zis is what happens when I go to Pot Belly when I'm stressed and find myself having a mighty need to write about one of the workers' laugh. Also, did you know that if you type "Full Body Laugh" into Google, the first thing that pops up is Jensen Ackles? You do now.]
His laugh is
utterly intoxicating.
It’s dramatic and
over the top and makes him erupt into full-bodied giggles.
And I got addicted
the very first time I heard it.
I’m not going to
lie, I really judge people by their laughter.
Those boys who
barely even smile when they laugh? Or those girls who nervously giggle as they
twirl their hair in mysterious ways as some kind of human flirtation?
Yeah. I hardcore
judge them.
But when Teddy
laughs, there is no room for judgment.
I met him for the
first time a year after I moved to Nashville. That was after my
doey-eyed-everyone-has-my-best-interest-at-and-if-I-just-smiled-enough-I-could-make-everyone-be-nice-to-me
phase.
Yes. Go ahead and
laugh. I deserved it.
When my boyfriend
whom I moved to Nashville for just stopped texting or calling me back and I
found out six months later it was because he got some Cindy or Kimberly or
Rachel pregnant because I saw it on Instagram, when my landlord jacked up the
price of rent a hundred bucks just because he could even though he knew that
would mean me choosing between rent and eating every month, when my cat died
and my boss laughed heartily when I asked if I could take a half day and then
finally said, “Oh, you’re serious,” yeah.
That’s when I knew
the doey-eyedness stage of my life was over.
I felt like a
walking cliché, to be honest.
Small town girl
moves to the “big city” of Nashville to change the world by taking pictures and
teaching yoga to kids, ends up being a bartender at a
halfway-classy-halfway-shady hipster bar, gets defeated by mean big city.
They would make my
life into a desperate Hollywood film if only I had more romantic encounters
instead of coming home every night to crackers and popcorn and People Magazine.
One night, a
particularly rich group of hipster thirtysomethings-without-children came into
my bar and were feeling saintly apparently because I went home with more in
tips than I ever had in my year of bartending. So I decided to spoil myself
with some of the money and get something for lunch other than ramen noodles and
stale oyster crackers.
I had loitered
outside of this one café lots of times, wishing I could make the pennies in my
pocket magically turn into dollars so I could afford a $15 sandwich. The smells
that came out of that place were not from this world, and it felt like they
were taunting me.
But that day, I
felt so cool as I walked in and proudly ordered a turkey-and-mushroom-on-wheat,
sparing no expense and getting a side of sour cream and chive chips and a
pickle with my water.
“No fountain
drink?” the guy behind the counter asked me with a smile as he handed me my
water cup.
“Let’s not go too
cray-cray now,” I said, too hungry to think about the words before I said them.
I froze, my hand
still outstretched for the water cup but not reaching far enough to actually
take it from him.
Had I really just
uttered the phrase cray-cray? I looked up in horror, ready to accept the
mockery I deserved from this attractive mountain man making my sandwich.
But what I got was
the laugh.
That amazing,
refreshing, whole-hearted laugh.
“Oh man,” he said,
wiping his eyes. “You made my day, sugar.”
I smiled brighter
than I had in a year.
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