The first (and probably last) cup

I've just come back from Boise, where I was acting in a series of commercials with my faux family, a group of delightful actors I'd bonded with when we worked together a year and a half ago.  As always with travel, there were lots of new sights, restaurants, social interactions, etc.  A great experience overall (reported with more details in my other blog, Musings from Granny Owl).

Now that I'm home, I'm back to being on the lookout for my Somethings New, and found quite a few yesterday and today.  Yesterday, after we ran errands, Sweet Hubby and I were thinking of possible lunch places.  He suggested we try a diner near us, one we've passed a thousand times but never stopped into.  I'd always assumed it was a tavern, and indeed half of it is saloon, but the other half is an old timey coffee shop, the kind where the wait staff has been there forever and a salad consists of chopped iceberg lettuce and some dressing.  We both had hamburgers, not particularly special but quite good, and we've determined to go back there to try their breakfasts.

After lunch, I opted to walk the mile and a half home, which of course meant walking through neighborhood blocks new to me.  I passed tiny, rundown homes and great big new builds; yards choked with weeds and sculpted yards full of flowers; stretches of relentlessly hot pavement and stretches of treesy shade.  No big discoveries; just the joy of being where I hadn't been before, as well as the satisfaction of walking.

Today I walked to the market to buy our usual Sunday paper and pastries.  Nothing new there.  But I walked home a different, longer way, taking advantage of the cooler morning air.

The big Something New today, though, was drinking my first cup of coffee.  I've had a couple of iced mochas (heavy on the chocolate, light on the coffee, please) and about half of one heavily hazelnutted latte, but this was the first time I have ever drunk a cup of coffee.  Just coffee - at least for the first few sips.

I kept asking SH, "Do you actually like this?"  Which he does.  Most people seem to.  I guess I can imagine the possibility of getting used to that bitter taste, but I figure why bother to get used to something I don't care for and don't need?  I stuck with it for about a third of the cup, then added some vanilla iced cream, which helped considerably, although I still didn't care much for it and didn't finish it.

But I gave it a try, which is, after the all, the whole point.  Now I want to/need to brush my teeth.  Nasty aftertaste.  People really like this stuff?

Are strange people strange?

Yesterday as Sweet Hubby and I stood in line at a bakery for our Sunday morning paper and pastries routine, I noticed that the young woman ahead of us in line had designs of lumps on her arms, clearly put there on purpose.  She and her friend were both pierced all over their faces and tattooed on the rest of their bodies.  The front half of this woman's hair was shaved, and she also had little lumps on her forehead to represent horns.

I was so curious about those lumps.  Were they scars that had been treated with something to make them stand out?  I couldn't see incision markings.  Had something been inserted inside or under the skin?  I was fascinated and wished I could ask, but wasn't sure how she would take curiosity from someone like me, an older, plainly dressed woman who has never been bolder than to have my ears pierced (although I shaved my head several decades ago).  We seemed almost to be different species, she and I, and I didn't want to be rude or risk being rebuffed with a sneer.

But still, I thought, she's human and I'm human, we speak the same language, we're at the same bakery, we (probably) live in the same city.  Maybe we're not really as different as our appearances suggest.  And after all, it wouldn't make sense to cover one's body with art and then hope people don't notice.  So instead of talking myself out of approaching her, I talked myself into it.

I tapped her lightly on the shoulder and said "Excuse me".  She turned around with a friendly smile, and when I expressed my curiosity about the lumps on her arms, she quite gladly explained that they were silicon implants.  She even let me touch them (smooth and hard).  I told her I got a giggle out of the 'horns' on her forehead.  (It crossed my mind to say "Good thing you didn't go full out Loki", but I didn't.)  I confessed that I had hesitated to speak to her, but remembered that most people are nice and kind and that I hoped she didn't mind.

I need to remember that more often, that people who look very different from me are still people, made of the same stuff I'm made of, with the same organs, probably a lot of the same emotions, maybe even having had a lot of the same kinds of experiences.  No doubt most of us want pretty much the same things: to be happy, or at least content, in our lives.  To survive without too much struggle.  To be healthy.  To be connected.  To belong.  To be seen and accepted.  To be loved.  I'm glad I talked to her.  It was, all in all, an interesting and satisfying exchange, and I came away from it with a lot more than information.

Walking more slowly

Yesterday I went with a friend for a lovely walk in a nearby park.  I've been to this park before and had thought I'd seen it all, but because I asked her to choose which paths to follow, which turns to make, I learned that there were parts of the park I had missed.  

Usually when I walk, I keep up a brisk pace in order to get my heart pumping and to get lots of steps.  But my friend is in her 80's so we walked more slowly, which meant that I was seeing and hearing and smelling my surroundings in a way I often miss.

So today while I was walking the 2 miles home after dropping my car off at the mechanic, I chose a different way than usual and walked more slowly so that I could truly be present to my surroundings.  There's a part of me that rebels at slowing down because my self-image demands I keep up with my younger self.  But when I choose a slower walk, it doesn't feel so much as though I'm making a concession to age but am rather giving myself a time of more meditative, reflective exercise.  I can't help but wonder what sweet sights or luscious fragrances I might have missed when I was pushing along at my usual pace.