I'd been waiting for a package to arrive -- a gift for my husband's birthday. Returning from a shopping trip yesterday, I was relieved to see a package on the porch, so I took it inside and opened it up and it was so not the package I had been waiting for. It was baby paraphernalia for a baby shower I'm attending this weekend.
Which is confounding, when you are expecting one thing and it turns out to be ga-ga-goo-goo baby stuff. Once I realized that I had, indeed, ordered this item and that some numbskull had not mistakenly sent me this instead of my husband's gift, I realized what I had done.
I had neglected to check the shipping address closely, and it had been shipped to my old office. When I checked the tracking online, indeed, receipt confirmed at my old office. It was signed for by someone named "Muffy." I swear - that is what it said on the tracking site.
I immediately called my closest friend from my previous job.
Me: Hey. I'm a dumbass. I had another package sent to the office.
Her: Hmmm, are you sure? I haven't heard anything.
Me: Yes, it was signed by someone named Muffy.
Her: No, I don't think so. We don't have a Muffy. Laura, is there someone here named Muffy?
(Laura in the background -- Ummm, what? Muffy? No.)
After much discussion over the possible origin of the name Muffy, it was determined that, indeed, the package was there, and Laura would kindly wait for me to arrive so I could pick it up.
I drove helter skelter to get there in 5 o'clock traffic and made it in 13 minutes -- a new record!
Laura opened the door for me and gave me the package and a hug and inquired as to my well-being and there was a familiar look in her eye that I can only conclude is confusion.
When I encounter former co-workers, I think they are expecting me to be 8 months pregnant or looking deathly ill.
Poor dear, she quit because she's dying!
I should at least look fit, trim, and well-rested, what with all of the time I have to exercise and shop carefully for organic foods and cook them in a healthful manner.
I should definitely not look chunky and sweaty and panicked, I suppose.
So when I do look ... chunky and sweaty and panicked, and I'm not visibly pregnant or ill, I receive the look of confusion. Is it truly possible that I quit my job to become a reclusive writer?
My husband tells me he would go insane working from home, alone. But it is my bliss. I receive the exact amount of human interaction I desire, which is to say: very little. I control it. I can call or see friends or family when I want to, and most of the time I prefer to tinker away at my projects, in my small world, alone. When someone knocks on the door, it is an annoyance.
I don't feel overwhelmed by human interaction any more, and I feel I've actually had time to study human behavior more closely because of it. I understand better why people act the way they do, even though I spend less time with them.
But I always forget people are confused by me. Or maybe even annoyed with me. I dropped out of the rat race. Who wouldn't want to do that?
I thanked Laura, and I took my package and raced my chunk back out the front door.