I guess it makes sense that I’m still doing my morning walk since there is still an old grumper around here. I only do my full afternoon walk on weekends anymore. I guess that’s because there aren’t any teenagers around here any more? Or maybe it’s because I have a *job*, a *real* job, which is what I tell all the people along my afternoon route that have come out of the woodwork to ask worriedly why I don’t walk anymore. Er, well, I do, I just don’t *usually* walk in the *afternoon*. Except on the weekends. The ones when I’m home here on The Planet Ann Arbor.

Oh well. This afternoon, I had to change my route a little bit. I have had the same afternoon route for years. It has evolved from a day when teenagers were haaaaannnnging around the house bickering or whatever on a hot, steamy summer day and we were under a severe thunderstorm watch. I needed to walk but I didn’t want to get caught out there in lightning, which I am highly respectful of*, and I don’t think anyone younger than us parents could drive yet, so I couldn’t call anyone to pick me up. So, I figured out a twisty turny route that would allow me to quickly dip back home if you-know-what hit the fan.

Well. Today is Saturday and I didn’t have to work and it was a perfect day to do my afternoon route. Except that as I got out to Miller, I looked down the sidewalk and I could see my friend “Dorothy” (names have been changed) out there picking up every single last itty bitty two-inch twig on her beautiful little front lawn. Erk. I like Dorothy but. Sigh. Dorothy is an older woman. She is absolutely beautiful, thin, perfectly preserved and coiffed, and always dresses as if she stepped out of a bandbox. Kayak Woman? Not so much. I know that Dorothy grew up in Grosse Pointe, that one of her sons is a prosecutor here on the planet and the other is a priest and she drives a Cadillac. I think I believe this stuff but I’m not sure. But who cares?

I actually don’t think there’s anything wrong with Dorothy except that she seems to be a bit OCD. About her lawn, at least. Who knows what’s inside the house. I’m not sure I wanna know. And I think she’s lonely!!! I think the prosecutor and the priest probably don’t keep her entertained enough and maybe whatever grandchildren there are have grown up and moved to Timbuctoo. The problem is, when I walk by her house and she’s outside picking up sticks, she engages me in conversation. That would be fine, except that she doesn’t know when to quit. So, because I care about her, my brain and mouth are hanging out in one place and my whole body is trying to head down the sidewalk.

When I walk, it’s hard for me to stop and talk. My walks are when I process stuff. It’s not quite the same as REM sleep dreams (I have plently of those) but it’s a similar thing. I do stop and talk sometimes. To old friends from the Haisley Mafia that haven’t moved out to McMansionville. Or quick hellos to other walkers I see every day. But I cannot do one-sided conversations and both people have to know when to let go. Let that frazzled woman (me) keep going down the sidewalk, please. So, today, I took a detour. From Dorothy. I felt guilty. But.

I am not a good conversationalist from the get-go. But I *think* I can read when people really don’t want to talk any more and try to end the conversation gracefully. Actually, sometimes I think I end things too soon, thinking that whoever I’m talking to is probably totally bored with whatever I might have to say. We all have interesting things to say and boring things to say. I have a hard time telling people all of the stuff that’s happened to me in my life and especially over the last few years. Why would they want to know? Everyone has their own story. Maybe that’s why I am blathering away here on my blahg! Read or don’t read. Love you either way! 🙂

*Mouse had some kind of complaint about my grammar or syntax or whatever. I’m not sure what. She’s undoubtedly right and I have no idea what the blasted subjunctive is but I don’t care. Deal with it! 😛

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