A couple of weeks ago, the day finally arrived when our belongings would be delivered to our new house in Utah. The truck was scheduled to arrive at the house between 9:00-9:30, so I got up before the sun, tossed on my running shorts, and headed out the door. By the time I got back to my in-laws’ house, where I was staying, I was worried about rush-hour traffic. So instead of showering, I threw my bags in the car and headed up to the new house. If we beat the traffic, there’d be plenty of time to shower before the truck arrived. Miraculously, there was no traffic, and we arrived at the house a full hour before the movers were scheduled to show up. But when we turned the corner onto our street, there they were, waiting for us in the driveway, eager to start working.
So instead of warming up with a hot shower and a pair of jeans, I stood in the drizzle on the driveway for the next four or five hours, shivering in my running shorts, checking off numbered boxes as the rolled off the truck. Pretty soon, a steady stream of neighbors started to come by the house, introducing themselves as the Scoutmaster, the Bear Den leader, the former owner’s mother, and the Visiting Teaching Coordinator.
Each time, I suppressed an inward groan as someone else showed up, and found myself apologizing for my shivering, immodest, hairy-legged state:
“Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to shower this morning.”
“I don’t usually dress like this.”
“They showed up earlier than I thought they would.”
In Texas, I never would have dreamed of apologizing to the neighbors for my running shorts. In Texas, I never would have shivered on a June morning. In Texas, I hardly knew my next-door neighbors’ first names.
I don’t feel bad about what I wear for exercise, but I’m starting to realize that maybe I hang around in my shorts and tank tops longer than is strictly necessary. Most mornings, when I get back into the house after a run, I’m met at the door by one kid who wants a drink, another one who needs a new pull up, and a sink full of dishes and unmade beds calling to me from every bedroom. Usually the last thing on my mind is getting into the shower and more modest clothing. Here, I’m embarrassed when I take out the trash mid-morning, hours after I’ve gotten back from my run, and say hi to my neighbors in my barely-there shorts. But maybe I should be embarrassed. Maybe my embarrassment is a subtle nudge to do better in this part of my life.
Last night, after Sunday family dinner in the dining room, after Family Home Evening, my DH turned on a PBS documentary about giant squids for the boys. I was sweeping up from the floor 90% of a piece of cake my four-year-old had “eaten” for a treat. We heard a knock at the door. We’ve heard more unexpected knocks at the door in the last three weeks than we did our entire four years in Texas. Last night it was a neighbor family, members of the ward with kids close in age to ours, bearing brownies. I apologized for the mess as I took showed them around the house, apologized for the tv blaring in the family room, and once I was finally done apologizing, had a great time talking to them.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been so impressed by the kindness and friendliness of our neighbors here. I’ve never lived in a place (other than BYU) where my ward members and my neighbors were the same people, and these people have really gone out of their way to make us feel welcomed. If I can just stop apologizing right and left, I think I’ll be really happy here.
But first, I need to go take a shower…
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