It's Okay to Touch

I used to tell my mother I had to go to the bathroom when we were at temple services. On my way to the bathroom I'd stop inside the little coat room, and if nobody was around I'd pet the fur coats hanging there. They were so soft, sometimes still cold from the outside air.

Growing up Golden Boy and I were never allowed to touch things in department stores without asking. We could never touch anything breakable. To this day Golden Boy's instinct is to shove his hands in his pockets when he walks through the dish section of Bed, Bath & Beyond. Not me - I went in the opposite direction. I touch everything. Run my fingers over pretty designs, hold expensive vases, whatever strikes my fancy.

I have always been fascinated by other people. Sitting in the back seat of the car, I'd look into the windows of cars around us, and wonder where the other people were going. Were they excited to get there? Were they forced to wear their ugly navy blue buckle shoes that they hated too? Was their dad also angry because everyone wasn't ready on time and now they were stuck in the same traffic we were?

There was the blond pretty woman who was driving next to us, hysterically crying as she drove. I stared in horror and fascination. She was so beautiful that I couldn't imagine how anything could possibly be so bad that she'd cry like that, especially in public (clearly, I was quite young to think that way). The day I got fired from the men's clothing store at the mall, I drove home hysterically crying, and I thought of that blond woman I saw as a child.

My father always yelled at me when he caught me people-watching. "Pay attention to your own life!" What I took away from that was two things. One, that wanting to see what other people are doing is wrong. As if wondering about who other people were crossing the bridge to see was the same as hiding in bushes at night to peek into people's windows. Two, that my life was such a wreck it needed more attention than I was giving it. As if all I needed in order to be one of those kids who was able to do their homework and keep their bedroom clean was simply to pay more attention to my life. I didn't even know people-watching was a real term until I was an adult.

Normal people can have quirks, and they can still be a normal person even with them. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say people without quirks are weird. Just like there's something distinctly imperfect about perfect people.

In the interest of indulging quirks, Wide Lawns, here's the inside of my fridge, just for you. The right side is mine, left side is 9am's. In case the lighting isn't good enough, here's what you're looking at:

Top shelf: two yogurts, bottle of water, bottle of Vitamin water, some sort of weird healthy berry juice.

Middle shelf: shredded mozzarella cheese, rye bread, rice pudding, a banana, an opened box of spinach fettucine. There are two unopened vitamin waters behind the bread.

Bottom shelf: romaine hearts, cucumber, grilled (cooked) chicken.

You can't see what's on the door, but I've got milk, soy vey sauce, butter, sprinkle cheese, spaghetti sauce, and jelly.

Maybe for your birthday, I'll post a picture of what's in my kitchen cabinet for you.