The other day I was at the mall with my daughter.

I needed a coffee (it had been a tough day), so I stood in a long line at Starbucks while my daughter darted off to look in a women’s clothing store.

A young man in line behind me said, “Your granddaughter?”

“No,” I answered over my shoulder, “she’s my daughter.” Wholly crap, was I looking that old? I didn’t feel at all like talking (and not just because of the grandfather comment), so I didn’t turn around to look him in the eye.

The same voice from behind said, “Starbucks makes the best coffee, don’t they?”

Well, it wasn’t my favorite, so I said, “It’s okay.” Blunt, short, dismissive without being too rude, and message received, I thought: there was nothing but silence for a few moments as the line shuffled forward.

But again I heard the nagging voice from behind me; this time he said, “I’m sorry about the granddaughter-thing; I just realized it maybe sounded kind of rude.”

I half turned around and said, “Don’t worry about it; it’s not a big deal.” I quickly turned back around to avoid any further conversation or eye-contact. Surely he’d get the message that I just wasn’t in the mood to talk.

But apparently not: “What do you do for a living?” he asked.

I turned fully around and said, “It’s too complicated to explain, and I don’t feel like trying right now.” The woman behind him pretended to be interested in something else: she’d understood; she was receiving my telepathic communications.

“Well,” he said, “could you give me the simplified version?”

What the hell…? I wanted to ignore him, but he had such an innocent look about him that I melted a bit and said, “The major portion of my job is as maintenance coordinator on                 s.”

“Wow,” he said. “I don’t even know what that means.  What is that?”

He had such an ingenuous, open face. What the heck, I thought. So I explained. And then, to be polite, I asked him what he did for a living.

“Nothing like that,” he said. “I just move re-bar and wood around. And do other grunt-work.”

I told him it was honest, hard work, and I’d done the same stuff when I was his age. Oh crap, I thought: now I’m in a conversation! Fortunately, a few seconds later it was my turn to order my drink; so I did, and then I quickly tottered over to wait for my long-pour, quad-grandé Americano. My daughter came back just then, and we started talking.

After the the young guy finished ordering, he walked up close to us and said to my daughter: “Your dad has a really complicated job.”

My daughter looked at me with a puzzled expression (i.e.: who is this guy?), so I said, “And he thought you were my granddaughter.”

The three of us had a pleasant, yet fleeting, conversation. The young man had modified my mood; I was suddenly happy and gregarious.

His phone bleeped and he answered it.

My coffee was ready and the young man was in the middle of his phone conversation, so my daughter and I walked away.

I turned back to go say something to the young man; you know, Merry Christmas, or Have a nice day; something like that. But he was gone.

Since then, I’ve been trying harder to enjoy the people around me (regardless of what mood I’m in); friends, relatives, and strangers alike.