A SLOW WALK INTO MADNESS

I didn’t sleep well last night. Not for any particular reason; but that fact is important to set the scene.

Junebug was extra antsy this morning, so I wrangled her outside for an early walk. Right as we closed the door behind us, though, the mail truck screeched to a halt in front of us.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” I said ominously.

“What’s that?” asked the mailman.

“Nothing! Sorry she’s so energetic.” For Junebug was leaping and twisting in the air like a prima ballerina. “Still a puppy, even though she’s so…large.”

He set a package carefully on the front step, jumped back in the mail truck, and we continued on our walk.

Now, I knew what was in the package: a pair of shoes for a wedding I’m going to this month. (I’m making the dress, but I bought the shoes. Only because I can’t cobble my own shoes. Yet.) These shoes are beautiful—sort of art deco-y, mustard yellow with darker mustard piping (maybe dijon?), high-but-not-too-high heels, and they fit me, which is rare. I think my feet have grown recently. Size 6 used to be a little roomy on me, like my feet were really size 5 3/4, but the last few shoes I’ve tried on have fit perfectly. So either the shoes have changed, or I have.

Maybe my feet will keep growing.

Maybe in twenty years I’ll be walking around in clown shoes.

Which actually might be okay, because I’ve always loved unusual shoes: red sneakers, furry ankle boots, metallic oxfords, sandals with balloons tied around the straps (not inflated, of course; I’m not a maniac), brocade boots that make me look like a fancy witch. In middle school I bought white running shoes for P.E. and then drew all over them in multicolored Sharpies. They were hideous and I loved them. I have this pair of blue velvet heels that wrap around my ankle like a vampire’s collar, but the heels are too high to wear out anywhere so I just clomp around my house in them sometimes. It’s like playing dress-up but much, much sadder.

Also, side note, I don’t know my mailman’s name. He’s super nice, very funny, possibly the tallest man I’ve ever met, but I don’t know his name, and now, after two years of signing for packages and waving when he whizzes by in the truck, it feels too late to ask. It’s even worse because he knows my name—although he does have an unfair advantage, given that he sees my water bill every month. But he strikes me as a Stan and so that’s what I call him in my mind.

So Stan dropped off this package with an alluring new pair of shoes inside, and I left it there to finish our walk (even though my first instinct was to SHRIEK and CLAW OPEN THE BOX to TRY them ON) because I am nothing if not dignified. And because I knew this would be a difficult walk. Junebug wants to race every car that passes us because she is as FAST as the WIND, and she’s so enthusiastic about life that she pulls at the leash for at least two blocks before she calms down, as I give quick tugs on her collar and make her wait and let forth a steady, patient refrain of “No pulling. No pulling. No pulling. NO—PULL—ING.” So I left the package because I wanted a reward to come home to.

I thought that would be it for the unexpected surprises, until Stan stopped the mail truck in front of our neighbor’s house and got out to give them a package. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stride ahead brazenly and risk Junebug jumping all over him and dirtying the mail? Should I wait respectfully until he’d finished, thus leaving more opportunity for chit-chat? Paralyzed by indecision, I stood there, probably with a face like someone had just asked me to do a back flip, until he got out and saw us.

“Oh—” I chuckled nonchalantly. “Hello again.”

He waved and got back in the truck and we resumed our walk. I thought it was over. Until he stopped again, two houses ahead.

This was too much. Sociability can only take a person so far. I considered turning around and going the other way, but decided that would be even more awkward. Instead, I ducked my head and gave Junebug some random dance commands (“Jump around! Do…the twist! Everybody clap your hands!”) until he was gone. Relieved, we continued on our way.

The streets of this town are usually empty during the day. It’s one of the things I like most about living here. Today, however, we found one corner sectioned off with men working overhead, a construction worker talking on the phone in an alcove who looked genuinely afraid of Junebug, a man painting his front steps, way more runners than there should be when it’s this cold outside, and a woman coming out of the dog groomer’s carrying the tiniest fluff ball of a dog I’ve ever seen. Expecting disaster with each new impediment, I steered Junebug out into the street to avoid the construction and the fluff and the impending catastrophe of the paint situation, but somehow we could not shake Stan. When we turned the first corner, there he was, stepping off the truck to give someone else a package.

“So many things to sniff!” he said jovially, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Uh huh!” I mumbled, hurrying Junebug along.

White flakes appeared on her coat as she stopped to sniff at a gate. I looked up to see about a dozen more flakes drifting strangely all around us. It couldn’t be snow, I thought; it seemed to be materializing in midair and not falling from the sky. “Is this dandruff?” I asked foggily. “No. That was dumb. Is it—is it ash? Is there a fire? …Am I dreaming right now?” Junebug lunged at the street, yanking me out of my reverie.

Really, none of these things—the construction, the wet paint, even the mailman—were all that dire. Had I been less tired, I would have thought them merely a string of diversions on an otherwise routine stroll. But I was tired, and so all these small things seemed to be designed to test me, like the labors of Hercules for social anxiety. I was growing edgy and paranoid, and when I whirled around to keep Junebug from cinching my feet with the leash and saw the mail truck inching along behind us, I almost lost my head.

“WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME, STAN?” I whispered, jittery and spooked. “THIS IS DEATH BY A THOUSAND TINY SOCIAL INTERACTIONS. IS THIS SOME KIND OF EXPOSURE THERAPY? HAVE YOU BEEN LYING IN WAIT ALL MORNING?”

I quickened our pace as we turned another corner. “Good girl, good girl,” I sang at Junebug, equal parts praise and hope. I looked back. Impossibly, there was the mail truck, though Stan was nowhere in sight. What if he’s not even in there anymore? I thought frantically. What if the truck left Stan behind to torture us with its slow advance?

We cut through a small parking lot and turned the last corner. Almost there. Ahead of us, a man came out of an apartment building with a vacuum and set it on the sidewalk. A vacuum. Of all the things to bring outside and leave on the sidewalk. All I could picture was Junebug attacking it like she does at home. And then, four more people, including a small child, trailed out of the apartment, reaching the sidewalk just as we reached them.

That’s when the jumping started (pup’s). And the rambling (mine).

“DOWN!—I’M SO SORRY YOU KNOW SHE’S—DOWN!—STRONGER THAN I AM ONLY A—DOWN!—PUPPY STILL LEARNING I TELL YA LOOK OUT FOR—DOWN!—STAN OR HE’LL GITCHA!”

A lady with pink hair laughed a little. “Okay.” I don’t think she knew which part to respond to, and I didn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry.” I sighed. “It’s been a strange walk.”

The vacuum man walked back to the building. “Cute dog,” he said, and stopped to pet her.

“SHE’S JUSAPPPUP—” I said, or something like that. I was quite wild by this time, frazzled and so very tired.

“Cool,” he said, obviously more alarmed by me than by an overexcited dog.

I glanced behind us. It appeared we’d shaken the mail truck. For now.

At last we made it home. The package was still there, next to the half-eaten gourds we still have by our front door from Halloween. “We’re home! We’re home!” I chanted softly to Junebug. She trotted along, unconcerned, a model walker in these last few steps. We reached the door. And obviously…well, I mean, honestly. Of course the door was locked. And naturally, I didn’t have my keys with me. But we all saw this coming, right? Stan saw it coming, my pink-haired neighbor saw it coming, even Junebug saw it coming.

I sank down onto the front step, looped the leash around my ankle, and opened the package.

The shoes are nice.

Not a bad morning.