I like to sit out on our front porch.
The thing is, we live in a neighborhood of close-together houses with teeny-tiny front yards.
And no one else uses their front porches.
They might put out some rocking chairs or a porch swing or a wrought-iron bench, but those are meant to be purely decorative.
But our porch is roomy enough for some seriously comfortable chairs, hassocks, a side table. There’s an overhead fan and lights.
It’s nice out there.
I like to sit there, in the mornings. In my pajamas and (my husband’s) robe.
People walk by, with their dogs. Lola has to greet everyone, so she barks.
Here’s how close we are to our neighbors: We planted a stand of bamboo along one side of our porch, to block the sun. Our neighbor on the other side of that bamboo set out his lawn sprinkler the other morning. You could hear the patter of the water hitting the bamboo leaves. “I’m not hitting you over there, am I?” he said (said, not shouted, no need to shout).
So, how weird am I for wanting to sit out on my porch?
I fear I am often weird like this. I just want to do my own thing and not have anyone notice, even if I am within ear- and eye-shot.
Ear-shot: our family is the loud family. I realized this, yet again, when I was out on the porch on a recent evening (with wine glass and book, this time). My son came home, and as he was entering the front door, he shouted to my husband and daughter, “Hello, Turds!” (“Turd” is a term of endearment in our family, but that might be another post.)
Are we too much? Hope not.