I like to think I look like an upstanding citizen. I try to always abide by rules of conduct and social behavior. I hardly ever carry any weapons, at least not visible to passersby. I’m kidding; the closest thing I have to a weapon is a fingernail file I carry in my purse and it’s not even metal. So why is it that I get some of the strangest, most accusing looks when I’m out in public?
Take yesterday, for instance. I was out jogging around my neighborhood where I make lap after lap, passing by my house several times. If you’ve read any of my past posts, you’ll know that I usually jog with my dog, Buddy. Buddy still has his little problem that occurs when running. Buddy’s problem stems from the fact that he always seems to know when we’re about to go for a run, and he’s always so excited that he never fully relieves himself beforehand, no matter how much I try to get him to go. So, I have to jog with a bag and stop to scoop poop all along our route because Buddy doesn’t actually stop running; it just sort of falls out like a trail of breadcrumbs behind us.
Like a good, conscientious neighbor, I dutifully scooped on my next lap and as I ran past my own driveway, I tossed the bag so I could retrieve it later when I returned. I happened to glance up in time to see a lady I didn’t recognize give me a most accusing look. Apparently she thought I had thrown a bag of poop onto someone else’s drive. I guess I could’ve offered up some plausible explanation as I passed by, but really, would it have been any less embarrassing? I’m only sorry she wasn’t still there to see me after a few more laps when I turned to go into the house.
Today I took a break from running errands and stopped to pick up some lunch before heading to the public library for some quiet writing time. I don’t particularly like to eat alone in a restaurant, so I ordered it to go and ate in my car at my next stop. I guess in hindsight, maybe I should’ve chosen better than to park along the street in such close proximity to someone’s house. It must have looked like I was pulling an all-day, undercover stake out, decked out in my dark sunglasses and a nondescript gray hoodie with my styrofoam to-go cup and notepad in hand. I was only jotting down notes for my novel, the one that currently has me in Crazy-Writer-Woman-Mode. I really wish I could’ve explained all that to the man who was eyeing me through his kitchen window.
Now, I ask you, does my behavior warrant suspicion? Perhaps I have more of a vivid writer’s imagination than I give myself credit for and I only perceive that people assume I’m up to no good. Nah. Who am I kidding? I’d wonder about me too.