I live in a neighborhood where we are all part of an association.

An association of what, you might ask.

It’s an association of rules and regulations and bylaws and committees and a board of directors.

It’s a mighty association, to be sure. But it’s all good. If I’ve learned one thing during my adult life, it’s that when other adults try to live together in a neighborhood they need rules, regulations and committees.

I’ve lived here for 23 years and I’ve never held a post worth posting.

That always fell to my husband. 

He served on committees and on the board of directors — even as president.

I attended the board meetings when he was president because we did those things together. I guess that might have sort of made me something like vice president, except that title and role doesn’t exist within our association, so it was a silent position — in addition to being a nonexistent one.

People in my neighborhood didn’t realize the power I wielded, being married to the president and all. I could have dictated all sorts of important dictations: home colors, flag replacements, garden plot allocations, mail distribution, package placement, party planning, sprinkler scheduling, dock maintenance, duck maintenance, pet management, speed limit enforcement and so much more.

But that was short-lived.

Because he died.

Yeah, isn’t that the trough of existence? You just get the ear of the president and he absconds. 

Oh, the beauty of life.

Or death.

It’s been three years — me in my neighborhood association, looking from the outside in.

An observer, because I chose to be. It was all I could handle.

My neighbors were kind and always friendly, but I never attended any board meetings after my husband died. I didn’t do the social functions. I didn’t have the desire, or energy.

Until this year. And then it happened. 

I attended not one meeting, but two. I partook in a few social functions, and found myself having fun. I was joining in, and it felt good.

And the really big deal happened.

I got asked to be on a committee. 

Not just one committee, but two: the social committee and the architectural committee. I became pretty much the most important person in the neighborhood, except for the president and maybe the people who put in the docks, the guys who mow the grass, the treasurer, secretary, other board members and anyone else living in a house with a number higher than two. (I live in house #1.)

So far I’ve attended a couple meetings with the architectural committee. It’s a bunch of guys and me. We stood around, kicking the dirt, discussing color and siding options for the clubhouse. It was serious business.

Which is sure to be juxtaposed by the serious, yet oh, so not serious business soon to be had by the social committee. There’s talk of crafting, tie dye, pot lucks and maybe even a happy hour or two (per week). 

It’s all good, in the name of the neighborhood. 

Being on a committee (okay, two!) may not make me important, but it did do something important for me. It made me a part of things — again. Not that I ever left being a part of it all, but in many regards, it felt like it.

And you know what, it felt good to be asked. It feels good to be back.

— Jill Pertler’s column Slices of Life appears regularly in the Times. She can be reached at slicescolumn@gmail.com.