In Or Out

Sometimes I hear people say things like, "I've been stuck in the house for two days, and I'm going crazy! I need to get out of here!" Though, technically, I don't hear people say it, because I do not interact with actual human beings, so I'm seeing this on their Facebook updates. But it seems strange to say, "I saw someone say this," even if it's technically true.

The only human I'm really comfortable with is Tom, but he's my husband, so he's in a separate category. Let's call him "super-human," because it's painfully accurate. Seriously, if you knew half the things he has to put up with. He has more patience than the Dalai Lama. (I'm assuming the Dalai Lama is patient. If he's not, he has an incredible public relations team.)

The point is, these people who claim cabin fever after a couple of days at home are nuts. Do you know what's out there? Have you been paying attention? There are Others. There are sales clerks and cashiers who insist on speaking to you, including the ones in the bank drive-through, which is infuriating because the whole reason I go to the drive-through is to avoid talking to people.

There are people who hold the door open at the convenience store and insist on making eye contact. Even in the safety of the car, one must deal with other vehicles, all of which seem to be driven by senile chimpanzees with cataracts.

I avoid the Out as much as possible. Normal humans might consider my reluctance to run errands a sign of laziness. Well, there's home-lazy and out-lazy, and (as is typical for me) I excel at both. Having to plan for every possible contingency before leaving the house is exhausting. What if I can't find the 40-watt light bulbs and have to ask someone where they are? What will I say? What will they say? What will I say back? Never mind, I'll just stay home. I know what the dogs will say. ("Bark!") I know what I will say back. ("Brody, shutthehellup!")

But occasionally something comes up, and I can no longer avoid putting on shoes and a bra and going out to pretend I'm a real person. Usually this involves cigarettes or chocolate. Stop judging me. Everybody eats chocolate.

Yesterday, we were out of both dishwasher detergent and trash bags. The dishwasher and the trash were both full. But we did have some heavy-duty 55-gallon construction grade trash bags. You know, the kind you can load with chunks of drywall. I transferred the contents of our last regular trash bag into one, then added the contents of the bathroom trash and some decomposing stuff from the refrigerator just so it wouldn't seem as wasteful. Problem solved. Empty (if slightly slimy and probably smelly) trash can in the kitchen closet. Win!

The dishwasher was still full, and this morning I considered taking some of the dishes out and hand washing them. Then I realized it would take about five times longer to wash these dishes by hand than it would take to simply go to the store and buy dishwasher detergent. Plus, I hate washing dishes.

And there was one more factor I had to consider...

Once every eight and a half days, the thing requiring my presence in the Out involves dropping our auto insurance payment off at the State Farm agency. Tom swears this is, in reality, only once a month, but I'm pretty sure he's lying. It certainly feels like every eight and a half days, or nine and a half if it happens to be leap year.

For some reason, he refuses to put a stamp on the envelope and mail it to the office, claiming it's only a mile away, it's really not a big deal, and why is it so damned hard to go hand someone a freaking envelope. Well, for one, the receptionist insists on asking me, every single time, if I want a receipt. I never do. We have this conversation every month. (Or every eight and a half days.) Can't she just assume it's the same as every other time, and spare me this unnecessary exchange? How inconsiderate. I need a new insurance agency.

I understand we can't put the payment out in our own mailbox, because several years ago we had some outgoing bills stolen. The thieves "washed" the checks and tried to cash them with different "payable to" information and amounts. Thankfully, they were unsuccessful - arrested! - but we now know we can't pay our bills using our own mailbox. Tom drives most of them to the public boxes near the location of the old post office. These boxes are, ironically, a block from the insurance office, but I'd totally drive there and stick the bill in the box rather than get out of the car and see that receptionist. Or receptionists. I'm not sure if it's always the same one, because I never look at her.

The alternative would be for Tom to take the bills to work with him and put them with his store's outgoing mail. The insurance bill would be driven 35 miles to be mailed, only to arrive at a destination one mile from where it was when we put it in the envelope. Tom thinks this is ridiculous. I think it makes perfect sense. That's what the USPS is for. If our mail carrier gets laid off and out of his mind with assault-rifle-toting rage, I'll explain to him that it's all Tom's fault.

Since I'm not looking at people, I tell myself in my head they're not looking at me, either. Still, I make some concessions to personal appearance when venturing into the Out. I change my furry sweats, shirt, and filthy socks for jeans, shoes, and a bra under my probably-fairly-clean shirt. I even brush my hair. I've pretty much stopped wearing makeup, but I wear glasses, and that's sort of like eye makeup. Plus, I'm probably going to Walmart, and I'm relatively sure if I showed up there stylishly dressed, with clean, well-groomed hair and impeccable makeup I would not be allowed inside.

It doesn't matter, really, since I'm wearing my "I'm not looking at you" cloak of invisibility. Logic would dictate that one of the three or four people I actually know could see me and assume I've fallen on hard times, might even be homeless, and am shuffling around Walmart pushing a cart full of things I can't actually afford to buy, but enjoying the fantasy that I can actually take these fabulous Ramen noodles back to my refrigerator box under the railroad bridge. But I refuse to subscribe to this logic, and choose instead to believe nobody can see me. Which is why it's incredibly rude for anyone to speak to me, because it sort of blows the whole theory.

We're all much better off if I just stay here and talk to the dogs. The people who like going out there are the crazy ones.