I think we’d all agree that there are some people who regularly see us at our very best. Then there are those who see us at our worst. And in most cases, it’s our neighbors.
Every night, I put on a long, brown coat, wrap my entire upper half in a scarf, throw on a hat, lace up my duck shoes, and strap a headlamp to my forehead. Then I grab two plastic bags and two leashes, slip them around the dogs and venture out for our midnight stroll. (Actually, it’s only around 6:00, but by then, a December evening in Connecticut looks like midnight.)
At night, we do the first half of our walk. In the morning, we’re back on the road for the rest of it.
On weekends, we wait until it’s light. On the bright side, the neighborhood seems friendlier when it’s light out. On the down side, everyone can see my dorky getup.
This morning, even though it was in full light of day, I strapped my headlamp on my forehead–because putting it on has become part of my muscle memory, and I forgot I wouldn’t need it. I was wearing two different socks–because I own a hundred pairs of fuzzy socks, and one of them always has a hole in it. It was 45 degrees and there really wasn’t a need for a hat, but I didn’t feel like combing my hair.
I bumped into Judy, who lives three houses down.
“Good morning!” she called. It looked like she’d never been more happy to see anyone in her entire life.
Judy has a modest beach house where she often enjoys her retirement with her husband of fifty years. She invites my family down for the summer, but we never seem to have the time. When you’re talking to her, you feel like you’re the most important person in the universe.
With a bag of poop dangling from my elbow, we chatted about the state of the world as her dogs and mine fought their leashes to get a sniff. She told me she believes it will get worse before it gets better. We talked about our families, and how my children somehow transformed into teenagers overnight. And at the end of our conversation, she said, “You look beautiful, as always.”
I looked down at my duck shoes, embarrassed, because I’d forgotten what I looked like. But something told me she wasn’t humoring me. Judy is one to look for beauty all her around her, and I knew she actually meant it.
“God will keep us,” she added, and then she took her dogs back inside.
Funny how much you can learn from a brief exchange…and how it can change the entire course of a dreary winter day.