The Unwelcoming Welcomer

About 6 years ago, I was asked to become our neighborhood's welcoming committee director. I assumed the job, since it was amazingly easy (greet the one to two new neighbotrs who move in yearly), and fun for an extrovert like me. The job consists of bringing the newcomers our neighborhood's welcome packet, containing the directory as well as information about our unique flora and fauna, and a cheap yet drinkable bottle of wine. For years, I enthusiastically loped up to the doors, and heartily greeted the new folks. I even forgot to get reimbursed for the wine. But now, alas, I grow more curmudgeonly, and realize I may no longer be the right man for the job. I grew tired of making multiple visits to the new peoples' houses, and took to simply leaving the bottle and packet at the front door. But our dear friend Diane moved away from the big house next door, and so last weekend it was my turn to again act in my official capacity. A small child answered my knock, and like a creepy salesman I asked if his mommy or daddy were home. A middle aged guy came down the stairs, protesting he had a cold and was not "feeling too social." That's ok, I told him -- I was just there to drop off the welcome packet. He never invited me past the door post I had crossed thousands of times before, in visits to our friend Diane and her ex husband Charlie. We grew close to them over the years -- even inviting them on a cruise with our closest friends, but, as often happens in a divorce, the outsiders get one spouse or the other, and we inherited Diane. Anyway, I stood there trying to make pleasant conversation with the diminutive lawyer, who in short order told me he had moved from a luxury apartment in the Gables, and was starting trial on a major case Monday. Wow -- I was impressed... He was a few years older than I am, and also told me he has grown kids as well as the little boy. I sort of figured the current kid had a different mom, and sure enough I was proved correct, as a lady in her early 30s flounced down the stairs, in a filled out halter top, with tatoos on both shoulders. She wasn't appearance challenged... The tatoos told me she was under 40, as I believe federal law prevents anyone (certainly a female) born before 1970 to get a tattoo, especially one visible to the general public. So I slouched away, feeling like I was a minor and comedic nuisance to our neighborhood's new version of "Modern Family." That's the point. Instead of embracing our newcomers, I was instantly mocking and chuckling about them. That's not very neighborly. I think I may need to turn in my welcome packet and wine soon. Strangely, Wifey, who was NEVER the friendly one in our marriage, is becoming more so. She's the current crime watch person. Maybe the answer is to switch jobs with her. She can be the warm, welcoming presence, while I report on the occasional thefts of change out of the unlocked car dashboards -- the only crime we've seen in the past half decade. Nah. Last thing I need is to become an upscale George Zimmerman. I'd better just keep to myself.