A Small Act Of Kindness

It was early one Friday evening. An old friend and I found ourselves in a little college town where we hadn't been since we were freshmen. We'd had dinner at our favorite student hangout and were strolling along the main street reminiscing and noting changes. As we passed a dance club, he asked, "Do you remember the last time we were here?
"Yeah, I do. But not tonight."
"C'mon!" He insisted. "We pledged that the next time we were in town, we'd go dancing here!" He opened the door and stood, waiting for me.
"Look at me!" I'd just gotten a really embarrassing haircut (unintentionally). I was wearing the same terribly outdated clothes I'd been wearing on the roadtrip. And then there was the Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I'd eaten for dinner. (The D&H was a combination hamburger with franks and LOTS of onions.)
He gestured for me to enter the open door. I mumbled a bad word and walked past him into the club.
He danced. I listened to the music. (Great band. Played mostly Doobie Brothers and Neil Young music.) Faintly, in the din of music and conversation, I heard a voice: "David?"  I looked around, but didn't recognize anyone. "David!" There was a hand on my arm. I hadn't expected to run into anyone I knew. Certainly not Susan.
Susan and I grew up in the same town, but hadn't met until we were in college. Her roommate was a friend of mine. Their dorm was near ours, so we crossed paths occasionally. On those occasions, I chatted with her roommate while she looked bored and anxious to get going again. She was gorgeous. And stylish. And intimidating. And it never occurred to me to ask her out.
We found a place in the club to sit down and caught each other up with where we had been and what we had been doing. Suddenly, she jumped up. "Oh, David! I love this song! Dance with me!" I hesitated, but despite my apprehensions, took her hand and we danced. I couldn't believe that a chance to dance with Susan had come at such an inopportune time. Then, mid-dance, a thought exploded in my mind that made me smile:  "Bad hair; bad clothes; bad breath ... and Susan still wanted to dance with me. There must be something about me that's OK!"
In the 40 years since, I've recalled that moment more times than I can even remember. When I've found myself in one of life's valleys, when I've needed some encouragement (or when I hear "Pieces Of April"), I remind myself: "Bad hair; bad clothes; bad breath ... and Susan still wanted to dance with me. There must be something about me that's OK!"

There are no small acts of kindness.