People look in my windows. I’m not kidding. I think it’s a small town thing. When I lived in a big city, as far as I know, only anonymous people might have looked in my windows. Even in suburbs, people don’t admit they might look in your windows, or they draw their blinds so neither one of you can see each other. Here, they call me to tell me to stop wasting my time on the computer, try a different shampoo (since this one seems to be making my head itch) or that my kids are staying up too late.
I got a call from my neighbor lady one day, asking me what was wrong with my boobs. I had been sitting at the dining room table, scratching my tit under my bra (ladies, you know how that is), thinking myself alone and unobserved. Then I felt a middle-aged hair nub, looked at my boob to confirm it, and went to the bathroom to pluck it. By the time it was plucked, the phone was ringing.
“What’s wrong with your boob? Got a lump?” asked my neighbor lady.
“WHAT?” I replied.
“I was driving by and looked over at your house and noticed you were looking in your shirt. Are you OK?” she answered.
“Ohmygod. It was a hair; it itched.” I replied, with great embarrassment.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, “my sister just found out she has a lump, and lumps were on my mind.”
It’s not so bad having everyone else in my business if my kids have been acting up somewhere off my radar, that I suppose I need to know about, but I do kind of feel weirded out by the idea of being watched through my windows. I suppose I have a mental mindset that windows are for looking out of, not into, since I don’t look into any windows other than shop windows. I would make a lousy spy and an even worse peeping Tom; people would have to be doing stuff on their front lawn, and loudly, for me to notice.
Oh, well, me and my well-harnessed rack are off to do chores in front of windows. Then we might lollygag behind a blank wall, just in case.