So, on a scale of 1 to 10, how crazy is this?

This evening, I did something I consider a fairly bold move for my quiet, little cookie-cutter apartment complex.

I went outside and did something no one else would think to do.

That’s right, I walked right out in front of God and everybody (one of my parents’ favorite colloquialisms) – yes, right in front of God and everybody – I did something no one would recognize as an appropriate behavior for a 29-year-old woman.

It probably does sound weird, what I was actually doing. You see, there was wide swathes of pavement on every side of the apartment buildings here. Wide enough that two cars can easily pass even with a row of parked vehicles on either side. All that pavement, which seems great most of the time, has the unfortunate side effect of leaving few places for snow melt to absorb into the ground, and there are no ditches for that either.

In this lovely, cold February weather, that snow melt puddles on the lower spots in the pavement, and particularly on the sidewalks. When night falls and the temperature drops from cold to frigid, that snow melt refreezes. In the morning, we residents are greeted by a solid, inches thick layer of ice that is literally smooth as glass. I tend to be impatient, and take quite a few tumbles. I’m never sure which is more bruised – my bottom, or my pride.

My parents had been visiting, and they were heading off to their place a couple of hours to the south. When I stuck my head out the door to yell a last quick good-bye, I noticed all that standing water puddling up, right before my eyes. It was taunting me, I swear it was. Then, I remembered I have a broom-mop, (it can do either, but does neither well) and that it probably would do a nice job shoving some of that slush onto the heaps of iced-over snow. Then, I hoped, it would refreeze on the ice-encrusted snow heaps instead of on the sidewalk a few steps from my front door.

What I did then was odd-looking, I’m sure. I turned the broom-mop on its skinny end and started swinging at the ice like I was a lumberjack splitting logs. There was a purpose to this, really. When I struck the surface ice, it broke open where air bubbles were trapped beneath.

As I alternated between whacking more solid sections and releasing the water trapped beneath the surface and shoving the resulting watery slush onto the banks of iced snow, at least one couple getting in their car had paused, obviously wondering what the heck that short chick was up to with her broom-mop, then they hurried on about their business. I shrugged it off, but I soon started wondering whether I was actually accomplishing anything. Then, I thought about the big helpings of pot roast and mashed potatoes I had eaten, plus large slice or torte for dessert, and that cup of coffee that was ampping up the adrenaline rush. I realized I could pass this off as exercise. I was burning off some of those calories that just don’t disappear the way they did when I was a teenager. Yeah, that’s it! My heart rate is elevated enough to consider this aerobic exercise. And after all I couldn’t see that I was making the ice any icier. This had a chance of helping, and shouldn’t hurt either way.

Before I knew it, twilight was almost over, and the slush was thickening. As it continued to harden, I started going back over the ice with my slush pusher, giving small, firm pats to the surface and keeping the freezing slush from flattening out into smoothness worthy of an ice skating rink. This, I’m hoping, will give my boots a little more traction in the morning, and maybe give my pride and my backside a reprieve.

During this little exercise, I felt oddly liberated. These bland apartment buildings, with their identical paint jobs and matching carports, make me feel pressured to conform. Go along with it, the neighborhood seems to say. Don’t make waves or put on such a weird show for the folks across the street; just enjoy the quiet little “community” that looks just like a dozen others nearby.

I think I somehow skipped part of the training on the American Dream, in which a cookie-cutter house in ready-made neighborhood in the suburbs is the way to happiness. I miss the quirks of my old city apartment. I liked the funky brick streets, with their sidewalks skewed by the venerable tree roots below, where walking looks a bit like playing hopscotch as one negotiates the ups and downs. I loved being close enough to the post office and the grocery store to walk for small errands.

It always seemed odd to me that so many people got in their cars to go around the block, giving themselves plenty of opportunity to complain about the parking situation, and how much better off they’d be in a little place outside of town where they’d have a parking spot with their name on it. I always feel like I’m going to get lost in those housing developments where everything looks the same. I could get lost in this expanse of uniformity.

Maybe this is a cyclical, generational thing, with my subconscious rebelling against these homogenized ‘burbs in which I find myself today, which will look great to a generation or two down the line.

Maybe I have a little touch of those “hippy” tendencies some people like to comment on. Although if I’m a hippy, I have to be the lamest, mildest hippy ever, because I inherited genes for good-student-well-behaved child as well.

Perhaps I’m just on track to be that crazy cat lady my ex always accused me of being.

Maybe one of these days, I will have some clue who I am. But for tonight anyway, I’m about wound down enough to snuggle under a blanket, watch a movie, and put aside my neurotic, almost nonstop self-analysis for a bit.

Maybe I had a smidgen of a clue about that whole happiness deal after all.
 
© 2011 Nicole Pickens