The strangers who know us
Some of my most intimate moments are not with family or close friends. They’re with strangers. People who come in and out of my life for a brief moment, and yet see me deeply. People who I text countless times a day for a short while, or who see corners of my body I never have, or know numbers that aren’t shared with any in my circle.
There’s Erin, our real estate agent. The person always at the top of my text message and recent call feed. She knows everything: how much we can afford, the things we care about, the things we stress about, how we answer the phone. She was so tightly intertwined in our lives for a few months, and then when the buying and selling were done, she dissolved. No more phone calls. No more texts. Slowly, her name is buried in my phone, punted downward. In December, we receive a holiday card from her. Of course, she knows our address. Her handwriting is different than what I expected.
There’s my gynecologist, Mary, who seems around my age. She understands when I talk about my pain. She sees my insides in a way I never will: my tilted uterus, the IUD strings. Why is it I feel so comfortable with a stranger invading my body in this way? Does it only take a white coat and a gentle voice? Someone who wears the same Garmin as me?
Kristin, my PT, knows my body too. She gently pushes on my hip, the exact spot, and knows what’s connected to what, how it’s making me feel, what’s underneath the skin. When I walk she watches in a way nobody ever has, looking at how things drag or drop, just by my footsteps. I do calf raises on one leg while she examines up the chain. She knows the needles are hurting once my breath thins. “One giant inhale left” she assures, as the needle spins inside the psoas and releases something I can barely describe. Sort of an aching deflation going around and around.
Esteban knows my salary, credit score, and color preference. Jim knows how often we order things on Amazon. Robert knows our ratio of junk mail to real letters. 127 Strava followers presumably know, or could find out, my typical running routes. Juan knows how much mortgage debt we have, my co-workers know what I wear every day.
These strangers know me, so they aren’t really strangers. But they aren’t really friends. Who are they? They’re my people, part of my unit. Without them, life would be different and feel strange. It’s this connection with people who don’t know me but who are let in with such a closeness that feels odd, yet remarkable. Strange, yet perfectly normal.
