I watch people.  A LOT.  Yes!  I realize how creepy that sounds even as I type it.  Do you ever have that surreal feeling of being an observer from the outside.  Almost like people are not aware that you are there.  It’s a window into the lives of others.  Sometimes, I find myself imagining the lives they must have.  I have mentioned this before.  Old people are my favorite.  And kids too.  The in-betweens, bah, not so much.  Old people and little kids?  These 2 groups seem to live in their element.  The little ones aren’t aware yet that they are “supposed” to be someone other than themselves.  Society and rules have not totally tainted them yet.  And old people.  They no longer have anything to lose or anyone to please.  I wonder what they were like back in their younger days, whether they have loved and been loved, whether they have travelled beyond imagination, if they were famous.  I can only imagine that the idea of their lives getting shorter is a form of liberation.  From dust to dust.  Or I prefer to see it as from self to self.  A journey of re-discovery of oneself, as ridiculous as that sounds.

This morning, as I sat watching the kids running around and playing after sending the 6-year old into her school playground, I was jealous.  Jealous of the wild abandon of self.  These moments I have as I sit in the car waiting for the bell to ring and the kids to trot into class are priceless.  I saw a couple of boys play-fighting and then a third boy pretend refereeing with “the dab” move.  For some reason, that sent me into a fit of laughter.  Yes!  The crazy lady in the Nissan with her coconut water, a recent craze.

I watched as parents of all types drove up, dropped off their kids, shared their unique “goodbyes” and drove away.  The kisses, the hugs, the smiles……..some lingering knowing these moments would be gone soon, some speeding away relishing with delight the hours they would have to themselves, the working parents attempting to jog back to their cars, late for a meeting I assume, and then today, I was treated to  a teenage looking male with track pants way below his butt line, red silky boxer shorts smiling at the world, dropping a kid off.  And I had to answer the 6-year old’s question of “why are his pants falling off” with “I don’t know darling.  Maybe no one taught him how to wear pants?”  Reply accepted.

The coffeeshop, my 3rd home, is my other favorite place to watch.  Those who come in alone.  I wonder if they are like me, enjoying their solitude and watching.  I shake off that thought.  I want to be the watcher, not the watchee.  The young couples who enjoy their breakfast together, each savoring the view of their respective phones.  The old couples hanging onto each other and the love they share for dear life, sharing a raspberry cream cheese filled scone.  The friends who attempt to argue at the counter, fighting to foot each other’s bill.  Sometimes, I just want to step in and say, “Fight not!  You can foot mine!”  And then there are the parents wrestling with their kids on the floor, having the time-old “you may not have the cookie” battle, the children temporarily distracted as they make eye-contact with me.

People watch.  I never seem to tire of it.