I’m not in the habit of telling my neighbor that I love her

Over the weekend, one of our neighbors sent me a text.

She wondered if she might borrow a snow shovel. She has one of her own, but a friend of hers was visiting and wanted to help tackle the snow.

I wrote back and then went outside to hand her the shovel, which she returned a short time later.

That was the last text I sent until this morning.

I always send my wife a text to report that I have arrived at work. Today was no different.

Well, except for the fact that my message went to my neighbor instead.

It’s not the first time I have made this sort of mistake. I once managed to send my sister-in-law in Michigan a note dealing with some minor matter. I think it had to do with the remote control for our garage door opener — something she couldn’t really address from the Midwest.  As I recall, she figured out what was happening. And fortunately, my neighbor did, too. But not before she read that I loved her and saw that I was now addressing her by a baffling, rather personal nickname.

Eventually, my wife wrote me to ask if I was at the paper yet. After a bit more confusion, I had my “D’oh!” moment of realization.

When I sent my neighbor a follow-up text apologizing for this morning’s misdirected message, she was understanding.

“We’ve all been there,” she wrote.