I just did a weird thing.

After a ridiculously challenging “pain day” yesterday, I felt marginally better this morning, so I went shopping with my parents. That’s not even the weird thing.

We went to the pharmacy and then to a way-too-expensive grocery store. (The kind I think of as a “gourmet” grocery store — for people with a large amount of disposable income, I would think.) I managed to fit my four items on Irving, my walker, and this was quite a task in itself, since, as I had two packages of freshly-made blueberry muffins and two six-packs of Coke Zero, the tall, rather heavy, somewhat bulky bottles. They were on sale. That was why I wanted to shop there.

At any rate, I had a friendly chat with the kind lady helping people at the self-checkouts. Though I was very tired after a rough, toss-and-turn sort of sleep, I was feeling chatty. I scanned the blueberry muffins, which prompted the kind lady to say, “Oh, I don’t know what they were making back in the bakery this morning, but it smelled absolutely delicious.”

I smiled. I said, “Isn’t that wonderful.” And I meant it too. I went on, as I’m prone to do when half-asleep: “I used to own a bookshop and there was a bakery just down the street. Every morning when I’d open the shop, I could smell that freshly baked bread — and, yeah, it was so lovely.”

“It is,” she agreed. “And tempting.”

“Yes! Very.”

I told her about a friend in Westport who owned his own bakery, and woke at 3 or 4 a.m. to do most of the day’s baking. He’d turned his sprawling garage — maybe it was once a carriage house? — into a first-class baking operation. Church Street Bakery was the name of the place, and it was outrageously popular, the food positively scrumptious, especially my favourite — the cinnamon rolls. They were often sold out of goodies by 11 a.m. Because of people like me.

So, after a pleasant chat with this really nice lady, after I’d scanned and bagged my items, I set off. I might have even said, “Have a nice day.”

Bit of a blur, that moment. Eventually, the lady (and I rather wish I knew her name, at this point; I’m normally good that way, but, alas, not today) said something about not forgetting to pay, or similar.

I barked a laugh. “Oh my!” My ears burned red, and I wheeled Irving around. “I actually completely forgot!” I laughed again, reaching for my wallet. “I can’t believe that. Sorry. I got yammering on. I do that.”

She touched a button on the screen, and winked at me. “They do like you to pay,” she said.

And that made me laugh, too. I couldn’t stop laughing, actually, while I was actually, finally paying — and after, when I was rolling out of the store. I was still laughing when, back at the van, I told my dad what happened. Dad laughed, too.

Next stop: Giant Tiger. There, I snagged a bag of Rold Good Pretzels, the crown jewel of snack foods, in my opinion, and something I like to snack on while writing. Then I made my way, as I always do at the Giant Tiger Boutique, as a writer friend of mine once called it (and maybe the store actually advertises it as such; at some point, every business, it seems, feels the need to “hip it up”) to the book section, which is essentially a small remainder bin of dusty titles with warped covers.

I spotted a copy of Noah’s Compass by Anne Tyler, and plucked it out. Eight bucks. I read the first sentence: “In the sixty-first year of his life, Liam Pennywell lost his job.” I smiled. I remembered Liam well. I remembered it’s a bit of a sad story, Liam’s, but one I’d thoroughly enjoyed — enough to remember Liam quite fondly.

Thing is, I own several copies of this book. They’re on a bookshelf at my home. I’d wager I own at least five copies of it. The first edition hardcover, and the trade paperback — this very version (published by Ballantine Books), or several of them, and an edition or two that was subsequently released. It would be a waste of $8 if I bought the book, really. That did occur to me. I mean, why not pick out something else?

Because I was feeling sad and pained and, frankly, at this point, near tears. (Pain accumulates and, I have found, tears are inevitable; it’s simply a matter of time — the sadness needs to be let out.) Seeing Anne Tyler’s name on the cover of the book — and it’s a simple cover, but quite lovely, decked out in appropriately soothing colours — was like seeing an old friend, and I felt comforted. And I couldn’t very well leave a good old friend behind, so in my head, I told myself: Fuck it. You didn’t bring any Anne Tyler with you. This will bring you joy and comfort, and inspire you to write.

I set the book on Irving’s seat, next to the pretzels. This time at the self-checkout, I remembered to pay. And to hell with the total, I felt so happy to be taking Anne Tyler home with me, I didn’t even look. I was already looking forward to reading about Liam Pennywell again.

Is a bit of peace of mind worth $8 to you? It is to me.

And, who knows, maybe I’ll one day gift this copy to a friend.

Back at my folks’ place — where I’ve retreated to write and get a respite from the concrete and noise of the downtown, where my home is — I sat down at the dining table (my “writing table”) on their back deck and opened the book. One of the first things I read was a blurb by The Independent (UK) on one of the inside pages. “Like her contemporaries Alice Munro and Carol Shields,” it said. “Tyler has always been drawn to life’s unheroic survivors … Comforting and cadenced.”

Yes, I thought, that sounded right.

Those three key words really struck me — they resonated — and I repeated them aloud: “Life’s unheroic survivors.” Then nodded my head.

Yeah, I thought. That’s most of us, all right.

That was me, actually. The guy who’d just dropped eight bucks on a book he already owns five times over because he needed the comfort, the companionship, and the beauty of the story. Something to mark this day as a good one, a better one — distinct, and fresh, and hopeful.

I will live the day, really live it, not moping about lingering pain and a crappy sleep, is basically what I told myself.

Oh — when I was pushing Irving toward the Giant Tiger exit, I got a big idea and made a U-turn. Then strolled over to the candy section, and happily grabbed the biggest bag of Peanut M&Ms on the shelf — the kind you eat in one sitting when cramming for a mid-term at college.

I didn’t forget to pay for them, either.

Life’s unheroic survivors. Isn’t that really who we all are? I genuinely believe it is.

So good on us, I suppose.