Bird Lady

I can’t really recall the precise moment I realized that I had become a crazy bird lady. It snuck up on me in the same way my sneaky eyebrows presented themselves to me in the mirror this morning in all of their overgrown and blinding glory. How is it that one can go to bed at night, reasonably groomed and well kept, and less than eight hours later, wake up looking like Bert from Sesame Street?




Previous experiences would suggest that fondness for the fowl is somewhat lacking, and for good reason. There was the time the bird cannon-balled into my car window, and then of course, the one that invaded my home, flying manically from window to window in a manner that could only be described as not right. It’s hard to born affection for any type of creature that only exacerbates post-pregnancy struggles with incontinence.

Just sayin’.

But lately, when there are a few moments of quiet, I sit on my porch and have surprisingly found delight in the birds.



Recognizing that I enjoy them best from a distance, and taking appropriate measures to prevent them from in fact penetrating my circle of personal space, I have been able to peacefully observe and take pleasure in all of their freaky little mannerisms. (I’m not entirely certain, but I believe the very scholarly ornithologist also refers to specific characteristics of the bird as “freaky little mannerisms.”)



For instance, the hummingbird continuously attempts to mock my intelligence. Fortunately, I am secure enough in my own limited areas of academia as well as consistently remind myself that the mocker isn’t really anything more than a birdbrain.



The hummingbird is fast, flying in and out to savor the nectar sold in concentrated form at Wal-Mart. He thinks that I don’t see him - that my eyes and brain cells aren’t quick enough to catch up with his shenanigans. But take a look at this shot:



And this one:



That’s what happens when housewives are trigger happy with the camera and desperate to ignore the 8 loads of clothes that need to be laundered.

So I watch them. Sometimes with company that isn’t entirely interested.


And sometimes in company that scares my fair-feathered friends away.




But nonetheless, I embrace the notion that I have become a crazy bird lady, minus the binoculars and fanny pack filled with granola bars, bird book and pill box.

And the joy it brings me outweighs the potential ridicule from those I like to call family and friends, who right this very minute are wondering if they really know me at all.