I think I am getting old or something. I kind of hate going out at night anymore. Especially when I have to drive for 45 minutes to get to where I am going. My trip home, not quite so long, since it was no longer rush hour, seemed incredibly long enough and when I pulled into my driveway and saw my own front door I almost cried with relief. Tonight it was a meeting of an art quilt group I have belonged to forever, but somehow I always feel just a little at odds with. At one point, as one of the members was showing a very serious and well-meaning and full-of-meaning piece, she picked up a sheet of paper and started reading a long quote about people dying on doorsteps and man's inhumanity to man and the deep and powerful lessons of her quilt, I really, really wanted to stick out my tongue, pantomime being strangled by a rope and collapse out of my chair onto the floor. Of course I am far too polite to do any such thing.
I am also so polite that Iapologize when someone else should have, and I bite my tongue and resent. (Long story, too stupid to repeat.) Anyway, my own front door and my porch light was about the best thing I have seen all evening. I went inside, poured a glass of wine and visited with Ray, who I hadn't seen since the crack of dawn, about his day. He started a new consulting job today and it is good. I reported on my day with our granddaughter which was perfect. We talked about theater tickets. My mood began to dissolve away. I was reminded of a time, so many years ago, when my son was a teenager. He had a date with a very pretty, but very demanding young suburban princess. To our surprise he rolled in about 10 o'clock. I asked why he was home so early. He said, "I decided I'd rather be with people who are nice to me." I also remembered a friend who once told me, "It doesn't matter where you go, there is someone there waiting to make you crazy."