An Interesting Thing

Last night around 1:00, I gave up on sleep. Earlier in the afternoon, Brent had made etouffee for twenty of our neighbors and friends, and my mind was busy enjoying the memory of it all; re-living conversations, wondering if I’d thanked Tracy for the orchid she brought, or Barb for the magnificent bouquet from her garden, or Beth for the light blue t-shirt she’d shrunk by accident and thought I would like to have. Rather than thrash around in bed and hope for sleep, I got up and started to read Abigail Thomas’s new book, Still Life at Eighty - the next interesting thing. Abby’s a friend, so I know that the next interesting thing is something she’s ready and wanting to describe in words as soon as it shows up. It could be anything. She’s a master at making anything into something.

            I woke up when Putt Putt the bike man’s lawn-mower-powered bicycle backfired outside my bedroom window at 7:25. He goes by every Monday through Thursday at the same time. It was way too early for me to get out of bed having been awake much of the night, so with nothing else to do, I lay there thinking about how today was not going to be a very interesting day. Lack of sleep will do that. Instead of trying to write or sing or play, I decided to do errands. Maybe something interesting would happen along the way.

In the grocery store parking lot a couple of hours later, this elegant, perfectly white Husky was sitting shotgun in a one-of-a-kind, metallic-purple Tesla.

The windows were up, the AC was on. I couldn’t hear it, but the dog was calm, not panting. I smiled at her as I walked by, went a few paces, then heard myself saying, now that’s an interesting thing. Don’t miss it. Go back. By then, two store employees who were retrieving carts were checking out the car too. One thought it was tacky and ridiculous, the other thought it was fabulous, perfect in every way. My inclination was to wonder who the owner was. There aren’t many people who would buy an $80,000+ car with white leather interiors then paint it purple. I imagined the driver to be an overly made-up blonde, wearing pink lipstick, robin’s egg blue nail polish, tight white capris, a white v-neck t-shirt with rhinestones to her cleavage, and shoes that are difficult to walk in. I made her a type as quickly as that. The car was gone when I came out 30 minutes later.

I wish I’d waited to see who the actual owner was. It would have taught me something about myself to find out that the owner was a gawky male with heavy glasses and un-styled hair.