I left the house today for the first time after a week of being sick. This sounds like a triumph, but wait, it gets better. Better? I mean slightly more gross.
I was the woman who left the house with unwashed hair and the sweatshirt she slept in. Which was also covered in dog hair. And there may or may not have been dried soup on one of her pant legs (which was slightly too short for the legs wearing them).
Natural light was dazzling and a bit frightening, and the woman I became regarded human interaction as a curious and novel event. She smiled a little too long at the high school kid at the store register, thinking of questions to ask him. His facial expression and lack of eye contact communicated that he wished she would leave.
This woman walked out of the store (where she bought cat food and Diet Dr Pepper). A homeless man regarded her for a second then gave her a high five. She bought him a coffee and he wished her a merry Christmas.
She got into her car to marvel at all she had accomplished, but then regarded her own appearance (something she probably should have done before leaving the house). In addition to the soup stain and dog hair, the woman noted some dried orange juice on her sleeve and three lash-length black hairs sprouting from her chin. She is the poster child for people emerging from underneath a rock, where they had been living for several years.
That woman is me. I am that woman. I see you glancing discreetly when I pass you, and I don’t blame you for staring. You’ll probably go home and write a blog post about me.