A hand offered.

[A hand offered.]  A gentleman offered me his hand tonight.

No, not that.

I was about to cross over the treacherous bit of parking lot that was covered with chunky ice and the deceiving is-it-water-or-ice-in-between-kinda stuff.  I was wearing dress shoes and being slightly cautious.  The gentleman I was walking with offered his hand to help me over the icy patch.

It delighted me.

Call it chivalry.  Call it an action of caring.  Call it what you will but it made me happy inside.

Perhaps it made me feel cared for.  Perhaps it helped me to feel … no.  Actually, pretty sure it is the first.  I felt cared for.

I know I have oodles of family and friends and people in my life who care for me.  Don’t get me wrong – I know that.  [Once more – I know.  And I thank you, family and friends.]  But on a day-to-day basis, I don’t often have people by my side offering a hand [or a hug or a pat on the back] to help me thru an icy patch – be it actual ice or a metaphor.  [One guess who is feeling deprived of physical touch these days.  Hugs are important, people.]

I didn’t actually take his hand.  Dumb, independent Lindsay turned down help again.  I opted for safer crossing a couple feet down the sidewalk.  If I was going down, he didn’t need to go down with me.

All the same, thank you, mister man, for your act of caring.  It was probably just second nature to you and what your momma taught you was right to do, but I appreciated it.  Enough to even write a blog post about it.  That says something.  [But not a whole lot.  QC isn’t a super high order around here.]