The inevitable arrived. I took Bernie back for repairs last month, and was less than amused when it took a month to be ready. I picked her up today, keeping my mouth shut about the delay. It was not after all the fault of the woman behind the counter, nor was it the fault of the person on the phone when I called two weeks ago. Fault is not even the right word for the repairman himself who shows up each day with his tools. 

 

I brought her home and set her back in her place of honor, plugged her in and made a pink dress. She hummed along happily, and the stitches were beautiful. But when I went to make a buttonhole, the memory failed. 

 

I shuddered. I do not relish the role of snippy customer, and had every intention of being satisfied. But three hundred dollars is a lot to spend for a job not done.

 

"Hello, this is Lori Odhner. I picked up my machine today." I began with forced calm. The woman listened to my saga, and was immediately apologetic. She expressed her regret that this had happened, and asked how far away I live.

 

"Can I meet you halfway somewhere? May we give you a loaner while we correct the mistake? And I will of course refund some of your money." It was all I could do to not burst into tears. 

 

While I am grateful for the strong possibility that the problem will be fixed, there is something even more significant emerging. This woman acknowledged my frustration. 

 

One might think that the solitary crucial element was how perfectly my machine performs. While I obviously have invested in this outcome, I can survive the inconvenience. But the way this woman empathized with my problem inverted me from a self-deprecating-unappeasable-and-demanding-shopper to a reasonable-yet-discerning-woman-who-expects-her-machine-to-make-a-proper-buttonhole. 

 

I am a card carrying fan of good listening skills. But even I am bowled over by how luxurious it is to feel heard. 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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