Recently I went out for socially distant smoothies with a longtime friend. The conversation began with catching up. It had been awhile.
"What's new?" Each of us gabbed while the other listened, laughing at the best parts. When I could almost see the bottom of my cup she shook her head.
"Your life is just more interesting than mine."
Did she have any idea how ordinary it really is? Empty and load the dishwasher with the same bowls that showed up yesterday. Different flavors of crud. Weighing which pile of laundry to hoist into the machine. John is out of dark socks, but the white load looks like an iceberg. Before climate change.
The stack of paperwork gaining momentum for an upcoming deadline is more boring than a documentary by the AMA about the advantages of dental floss. The actually riveting book laying next to it is unread, as the snippets of my day ricochet between organizing the costume room and paying bills.
During our chat she mentioned a shift in her husband's job, and her oldest daughter's pregnancy. Her youngest child is looking at colleges for next year and she is painting again. Juicy enough by any standards.
Before I had kids, or got married, I figured I knew what to expect. I got some things spot on, like pink cheeks and a king sized bed. But the unknowns have swept in like a tsunami.
Life is interesting. Just walking out my front door there is an art show of emerging signs of autumn. The wave of migrating geese overhead. The cardinals sound like a calliope as they sing to each other and, maybe to me. Gold creeps in as a second act to summer's green.
The vacillating weather, the unpredictable hiccups in our health or finances, even the aloof demeanor of the woman behind the counter are all thought provoking. They compel our attention in a way that keeps us curious.
If we remember to ask the world, "What's new?"
