When I was really young, I lived in a "bad" neighborhood, but the neighbors were all pals. We kids played hockey and soccer in the street, and when my mom needed butter or sugar or milk, she'd send me across the street or down the block to knock on a neighbor's door to borrow some.
When I was 10 and my dad's business did well, we moved to a hoity-toity neighborhood. My mom once sent me out to do the same "borrow some sugar" thing, but the reaction I got was so strange that I refused to ever do it again. It was like, "You want to what? Borrow my sugar?... I'll ask the maid if we have any." There were a few neighbors who were OK, but for the most part, I learned fast that this wasn't a "play in the streets, come chat on my steps" sort of place. I told myself I'd never live in a place like this when I had my own house. I'd go back to the lousy neighborhoods where people talk to each other.
When Anthony and I moved into our own house, though, I was still bordering on agoraphobic, and I never got to know my neighbors except one couple across the street who made the effort to keep coming by to chat with us. Even though I'm not agoraphobic now, I still rarely leave the house because I'm a workaholic, and I pretty much never just sit outside, or work on the car, or take out the trash, or cut the lawn like Anthony does-- which is why he knows a couple more neighbors than I do.
Anyway, we've been here about 6 years now and there's still no one I know well. Yesterday I had to switch cars with Anthony quickly, so I zipped out of the house in my pajamas, hair all a mess, acne cream on my face, at about 4 in the afternoon, and a neighbor demanded... DEMANDED... that I come take a walk with her because I looked like I was going to crack. I refused a couple of times, but finally went inside and changed and went with her. We walked a mile or so and exchanged life stories. It was neat. I tried not to be too shy, or to ramble too much, or to faint. I succeeded in at least two out of the three. I might just have my first neighbor friend.
When I was 10 and my dad's business did well, we moved to a hoity-toity neighborhood. My mom once sent me out to do the same "borrow some sugar" thing, but the reaction I got was so strange that I refused to ever do it again. It was like, "You want to what? Borrow my sugar?... I'll ask the maid if we have any." There were a few neighbors who were OK, but for the most part, I learned fast that this wasn't a "play in the streets, come chat on my steps" sort of place. I told myself I'd never live in a place like this when I had my own house. I'd go back to the lousy neighborhoods where people talk to each other.
When Anthony and I moved into our own house, though, I was still bordering on agoraphobic, and I never got to know my neighbors except one couple across the street who made the effort to keep coming by to chat with us. Even though I'm not agoraphobic now, I still rarely leave the house because I'm a workaholic, and I pretty much never just sit outside, or work on the car, or take out the trash, or cut the lawn like Anthony does-- which is why he knows a couple more neighbors than I do.
Anyway, we've been here about 6 years now and there's still no one I know well. Yesterday I had to switch cars with Anthony quickly, so I zipped out of the house in my pajamas, hair all a mess, acne cream on my face, at about 4 in the afternoon, and a neighbor demanded... DEMANDED... that I come take a walk with her because I looked like I was going to crack. I refused a couple of times, but finally went inside and changed and went with her. We walked a mile or so and exchanged life stories. It was neat. I tried not to be too shy, or to ramble too much, or to faint. I succeeded in at least two out of the three. I might just have my first neighbor friend.