Last Friday, when I posted a list of things I did during my unannounced hiatus from online life, I forgot one I very much meant to mention. That This American Life show I went to on Wednesday? The one where Sarah Vowell and I unfortunately did not become best friends? I forgot to report that the universe had a little fun with me that night by throwing a former meMarmony match in my path yet again. Remember the bad kisser who I ran into at Target a few months back? There he was again, at the Orpheum Theatre, walking right past me with a short blond woman who I can only assume has never emotionally wounded or insulted him by calling into question his make-out skills and prowess.
Apparently I was right when I said, last May, that this man and I must have been circling within 50 feet of each other for the past several years and that, post dating him, I was bound to run into him nearly every place I went. The fact that I have now spotted him twice (on two occasions where he presumably didn't spot me) makes me wonder how many times he's seen me while I've been unaware. It also makes me wonder where I can expect to see him next. This could actually be a fun game, I suppose. Like Where's Waldo (er, Where's Adam?) but without the stocking hat and thick-framed glasses. At least on Wednesday (unlike that day at Target), I was properly showered and lip-glossed. I can only hope the same holds true next time as well.
I was actually thinking about my first near run-in with that guy (and with the subsequent in-Target encounter with Crooked Soul Patch McLikeshimself a few weeks ago) before heading out to Target again today. As is my usual routine on a Sunday that involves no social plans, I spent a few minutes considering the To-Shower or Not To-Shower question. I wasn't planning to see anyone I knew or to be out for any length of time. A quick dab of powder and a ponytail seemed entirely sufficient for the day. I have learned my lesson now, however. I picked To-Shower this time.
This afternoon's Target outing marks only the third time I have left my house in the past four days. I stayed home from work on Thursday and Friday because I had no desire to spend three hours in traffic crawling my way through what I recently heard referred to as The Snowpocalypse, nor to spend the night in a motel somewhere off of Highway 36 due to an inability to make it the entire drive. Instead I gave myself an impromptu four-day weekend and took a work-from-home day followed by a self-proclaimed snow day.
You'd think I would get stir-crazy, cooped up alone for four consecutive days. (I did venture out for social outings a bit on Friday night and Saturday afternoon, but the majority of the past 96 hours were spent entirely on my own.) You'd think I'd be happy to go back to work tomorrow and rejoin humankind. Instead, I am dreading my 6:00 alarm the same way I do every Sunday around this time. I actually had a lovely four days of peaceful lounging about. I watched Ellen and Oprah two days in a row, which is two more days than I've seen either show in the past six months or more. I watched a mini-marathon of Gilmore Girls Season Three. I nearly finished the tiny baby sweater I am knitting for a friend's soon-to-be-born child. I got 140 or so pages closer to the end of the Hunt Sisters book I'm reading. And I realized, oddly and unsettlingly, that being homebound and anti-social is maybe a little too comfortable for me. It's a slippery slope, I think, between being content with a few days of mostly hermit-like solitude and suddenly seeing the appeal of unemployment and relishing the fantasy of life as a shut-in. I've said for years that I'm quite comfortable in my modern spinster role. Times like this, though, I realize I'm maybe just a few steps away from crazy old Cat Lady... minus the cats, of course.
I shouldn't say I spent the whole weekend lounging, however. I got plenty of exercise shoveling Thursday, Friday, and Saturday as well. I thought I was finally done for a while, so you can imagine how my heart sank when I went out to my car this afternoon and saw that a City plow had gone through my alley one more time and left another mini-wall of snow across my driveway. Unable to bring myself to haul out the shovel yet again, I decided to ignore the fact that I drive the vehicular equivalent of a 98-pound weakling and to try to charge on through the wall anyway. My wheels spun a bit and I thought I'd have to admit defeat, but eventually I made it past the obstacle. I should give my little Saturn a bit more credit, I suppose.
You know what else deserves more credit? That whole myth of "Minnesota Nice." Check it out: my next-door neighbor proving that Minnesotans actually are nice and that being on a speaking basis with your neighbors really isn't actually all bad. That is him with the snowblower; that is my driveway he's snowblowing. I really sort of love him right about now.