42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I sometimes embarrass easily. Sometimes I don’t. It depends on the situation.

Let’s chalk up a recent morning to embarrassment, though.

I wake up pretty early these days, for a night person. 8 a.m. is good, but this particular morning, I slept in later, cocooned in a warmth of kitties that was hard to break out of.

I also usually don’t get around to getting dressed until much later, just before I go to work. It’s a bad habit, but I have lots of others.

Anyway, this morning was no different. I was still wearing the most unattractive of nightclothes. Tatty plaid bottoms and a threadbare nightshirt that belonged to my long-deceased mother, as well as a pair of crocheted slippers my mother made for my great-grandmother, also deceased. My hair was a big rat’s nest, the result of tossing and turning only by my head all night because I was plastered with cats who would not let me move.

I was trying to purchase plane tickets for my trip home for Christmas (which is another ordeal in itself) and was already frustrated.

And then I heard a knock on the door. My first instinct was to go down with an afghan wrapped around me, but I realized I was fully dressed, after a fashion.

I opened the blinds, saw two young men on the other side of the door. Had no idea what they wanted, but they didn’t look like they were peddling door-to-door religion, so I opened it.

“Hi,” one of them said. “We live across the street.”

“Hi,” I said, my head poking out, but keeping the door otherwise shut, or so I thought. I recalled my irritation with them over a certain political sign, and for their habit of having parties in which their friends park on the street, in violation of the rules.

“We were just checking up on you,” one says. “We noticed you left your garage door up last night, and we wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”

I realize that it’s entirely possible, nay, even likely, that I would’ve done this. I’ve always been afraid of it, especially now since I leave the inside door unlocked because I’m afraid of locking myself in the garage while I live alone.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’m all right. I just must have flaked out last night. Thanks for checking up on me.”

I’m still embarrassed, but at least they’ve only sorta seen my wild hair.

And then my cat, Merlin, bolts out the small opening in the door.

I shriek at him and then request that they help me catch “my stupid cat.”

They have a dog across the street, but they gamely chased the wily creature around. Who was hiding in the bush.

Then I just gave up and stepped out, shutting the door behind me so the other cat likely to make a dash wouldn’t be tempted.

But luckily, one of the guys caught him and handed him to me.

I thanked them again for checking on me, and for catching my stupid cat, then yelled bad cat at him. They laughed and went back across the street. I shut the door and then meekly shut the garage door. No harm was done; nothing had been stolen.

So who is still in pajamas at 11 a.m.? Me. Often until 1:30, which is the last drop-dead time for me to take a shower before my earlier shift at work.

I often wish that I would get going earlier than that. There’s no harm in being fully dressed and clean earlier in the day; I just never get around to it. I imagine what I looked like to a couple of college kids: a crazy, dirty, chubby woman approaching middle age. Perhaps a crazy cat lady and flaky enough to forget to put the garage door down.

But at least I take in my garbage cans after trash day, which they don’t do promptly. Someone at work suggested that i show up at 3 a.m. to ask them if they were OK because they forgot to bring in their trash cans. But that would be petty, and they were actually doing me a kindness. I could have died. I could’ve been burgaled. Who knows?

I feel bad sometimes that I judge people wrongly. Even if I don’t approve of their politics, or of being young whippersnappers, I was heartened to know that they were decent folk and I should probably give them, and everyone else, the benefit of the doubt.