I knew no-one would see me, so…

Last Tuesday began with an early-morning phone call from our elderly neighbor’s son that he hadn’t been able to contact his Mom.  Barry and I live next door and we keep an eye on Mary, this man’s Mom, as do all of our neighbors.  Mary is 89, spry as a teenager but for some arthritis… with a big dog, a big smile, a healthy sense of humor and a wonderful sense of community.

This particular Tuesday was the day after the Columbus Day holiday weekend, and Barry and I had spent a couple of days out-of-town and all day Monday working inside our home.  We had seen Mary’s big dog romping in the house, as we always do, and Mary’s daily newspapers were, we assumed, taken inside because there were no telltale signs of danger with newspapers strewn on the front lawn.

Barry immediately went next door to check on Mary.  No answer to the knocking.  No answer to the bell.  The dog was, by then, going crazy.  (We would later find out that a neighbor had kindly, but unknowingly, placed Mary’s newspapers on her front porch, where we could not see them.) Barry immediately called Mary’s son and we waited for the son, his wife, the police and rescue to arrive.  It was a throat-choking, heart-gripping wait, longer-than-long wait.

I’ll jump ahead to let you know that Mary had fallen and could not reach her phone, but she was conscious… and taken to the hospital by rescue.  No broken bones or fractures, and overall, very lucky and recuperating nicely.

Of course, the neighbors were very alarmed by the police and rescue activity, and everyone came outdoors and felt just terrible.  Barry was the go-to man, it seemed, and later that morning he met our diagonally-across-the-street-neighbor who apologized for not coming over when we moved into our home in May to welcome us to the neighborhood.

No worries.

People are busy.

Anyway, this neighbor asked that Barry keep her posted on news of Mary.

No prob.

Fast-forward to after all the police and rescue activity.

I had a 12-mile run scheduled for that day.  I prefer going out earlier rather than later, but with all the goings-on, I ended up going out well into the afternoon.  And it was cold.  When my run was finished, I just wanted to ice my legs and then take a hot, hot, hot shower.  By the time I got into the shower, I was a shivering Sharon.  Brrrrrrrr.

I don’t know if I’ve ever taken a longer shower.  It was wonderful. And it was late afternoon by then. Like 3:30 afternoon late.

I knew I had no-where to go.  No-one to see.  Just work at home as I babysat for my daughter and son-in-law’s 3 dogs while they Honeymooned in the balmy Bahamas.  La-la-la-la-la.  I didn’t care.  The heat was on.  My run was good.  I just needed to get cozy and comfy.

And I did… in my otherwise known as “pajama” sweatpants, wide as a clown’s with room and ease of movement and oh-such-comfort, rips and all.  And on top?  Of course, my long, loose gray tank top, maybe obscenely threadbare.  And my fav old sweatshirt with a broken zipper that doesn’t go up far enough to cover the tank top.  Bra?  Nah.

Hair?  Drip-it-dry while piled on top of my head like a missile launch.

Make-up?  Why?  I’m not gonna see anyone.

Shoes?  What?  How about the oldest, widest, match-the-clown pants fake Crocs with the fake fleece.

Perfect.

Except I was starving, so I made myself a quick peanut butter and banana sandwich on a paper towel (why dirty a plate?  No-one’s gonna see me.)

Perfect?

Oh, not perfect yet.  Let me grab a cold beer.  It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.  But not here.  It was 3:30 and I guess I was craving carbs from the long run.  What-ev.  No-one’s gonna see me…

Then.  Then there was the knock-knock on our side porch door.  The door that I was standing directly in front of, sluggin’ down that Miller Lite with one hand, sloppin’ the peanut buttah and banana sandwich in the other and lookin’ like I had just got outta bed.  I wanted to hit the floor, but the knock-knocker had seen me.  And I had seen her.

There she was.  My age.  Beautifully dressed, right down to her lovely matching scarf.  Coming from her lovely diagonally-across-the-street home to give us her contact information for news about Mary.

Yup.  There I was.

The “new” neighbor.  All I really needed was a Lucky Strike dangling from my lips.

I knew it was futile to explain my appearance, so I put down my beer and placed the sandwich on the paper towel, greeted this nice lady and took the information that she had so nicely written on a very nice card.

Hmmmmm.  I don’t think she’ll be coming back to invite me to any Womens’ Clubs or Political Events or Charitable Activities in town.

Unless I can bring a 6-pack.

Oh, well.  What-ev…

You know when you KNOW no-one will see you? Ha!