Garage door

I'm one of those lucky people to have a garage.  Heck, I don't have a car but at least my bike has a comfortable place to live. I mean, having a driver's license AND a garage is half the success of having a car. Now all I have to do is wait until I'm thirty and able to afford to drive one but that's just a minor detail. To add onto the luxury, you can enter my garage from my apartment. Thus I have two entryways to the house: one through the front door and one through the garage (those are at least the traditional entryways, you can be sure I know of a couple more possibilities that sadly I've never been adventurous enough to try).  Everyday I have the option to choose how I'm going to leave my house. To an ordinary observer of my every day life, my choosing whether to use the front or the garage door may seem totally random. However, to a percipient observer there is a clearly distinguishable pattern. A percipient observer would see that on days that I'm wearing high heels, dresses, and bags that are clearly color-coordinated with the rest of my outfit I'd be leaving through the front door. If I feel really sophisticated I'll even stop by my mailbox and examine the mail with a curious smile. On those days I either sport a bright smile or a knowledgeable disdain on my face, the latter mostly when a suit and a laptop case are involved. On those days I go to concerts, theater plays or run "important errands". This observer would probably assume that on those days I feel good about myself. He would also discern that on the days that I use my garage door, I usually look quite different. I might go jogging, or to take out trash. If the observer is particularly perceptive he will notice that if I'm going to the store through my garage, I'll usually just end up bringing back big containers of chocolate ice cream. I leave through my garage if I'm wearing anything resembling sweats, anything clearly mismatched, anything that's been spilled on, sewed on in a noticeable manner, or if it's a really bad day, torn. Most of my clothing on those days will have cat hair on it but I won't care. It will be clear I'm feeling quite down. Yet, the most perceptive of the observers will see that all this actually is not about fashion in the slightest. Leaving through my garage door is a way for me to sulk and wallow, as if I'm not worthy of the proud stride through the front door that would indicate I actually know where I'm going, or that I'm the place I was supposed to be in from the beginning.

Lately, it would take only an ordinary observer to notice that I've been using my garage door much more often than I used to and way more often than my front door.  Yet, I am making a conscious decision to use only my front door from now on. I might have crappy circumstances but I hope I still have it in me to be joyful.

In conclusion, I sincerely hope I don't really have such perceptive observers in front of my house. I would be really freaked out by that.

Song of the day: Someone to watch over me - Chet Baker

Verse of the day: Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Phillipians 4:4