When I first moved into my apartment, I had the idea that people would be knocking on my door all the time. I figured neighbours would be stopping by or friends or relatives or mailmen, I don't know, just people.
Plus, I'd watched a lot of tv and that seemed to be the thing that happened, so I made sure I had cute (read: just a little sexy) outfits to relax in.
Problem is, cute outfits are so not comfortable and me? I like me my comfort. Especially in my own home where, as it turns out, no one ever knocks on my door.
Well, that's a slight exaggeration, but because I buzz my friends or relatives or mailmen into the building, there's rarely a knock on my door I'm not expecting.
So a couple of weekends ago, utterly exhausted from my Dad's surgery and being back at work, I was completely relieved to find myself with a three day weekend.
So relieved was I, I had a shower and decided I was too tired to even bother combing my hair. I mean, I didn't have plans for the weekend, so it's not like anyone was going to see me so I didn't even do my bangs, which I usually take the time to fix.
(Do you feel the foreshadowing here my friends?)
The weather had just started turning warm which meant the local family of ants had decided to check out my apartment for any findings. I lay on my couch in my comfiest pj bottoms, baggy old t-shirt and uncombed hair and emailed my lovely resident manager to ask her what I should do about the ants. Did she want me to handle them and put out bait or traps or whatever, or should I let her handle it?
Then, I sat back and dialed up some really bad tv on my computer and vegged out.
An episode and half into whatever show I was watching (ok, I know exactly what show
I was watching, but I'm pretty embarrassed to admit it) when there was a knock on my door.
Now, usually if I don't know who's at the door, I take the time to throw on a jacket or blanket over my tshirt since I don't wear a bra when I'm relaxing and it's....er... obvious, but I figured it was Michelle, my landlady with some ant traps for me, so I didn't bother.
So imagine my surprise when I opened the door to a rather cute young man, a tattoo just peeking out from under his green tshirt and a friendly smile on his face.
"Urgh?" I said, my brain frozen.
"Hey!" said this cute young thing, "I'm Steve, your new neighbour, I'm moving in next door and just wanted to say hi."
At this point most of my brain was still going "urgh?" but the better part of me kicked into gear and struck up a conversation with him.
"So, I hear you're a spy too, where is your spy cave located?" I chirped, cheerfully, while trying to hide myself behind the door while simultaneously cursing how I must look and realizing that if I tried to hide myself behind the door I would make myself look crazier than I must already look.
So we chatted a bit about I don't even know what, and I jokingly referred to the fact that I was in my "Sunday best" guffaw, guffaw, and I'd love to invite him in to chat but wouldn't you know it I was watching this terrible tv show had he ever heard of it.... at which point the rest of my brain woke up and started shouting ABORT, ABORT! RETREAT! IMMEDIATE RETREAT! And so he went back to his place to unpack and I closed and locked the door and then turned around to see the mirror I have in my entrance.
Which was a bad idea.
Because then I shrivelled up and tried to melt into the floor.
You guys, no one should have had to see me looking like that. It was bad.
Like, the outfit alone was barely forgivable, but combined with ratty hair and poofy bangs? I looked really. Really. Bad.
I don't think I could have been more embarrassed.
I mean really. Why couldn't this guy have shown up five years ago, when I still wore cute outfits around the place? Or why couldn't he have shown up last weekend, when I was wandering around in nothing but a sarong because it was so damn hot?
Oh well. I guess next time I see him I'll look surprisingly awesome right?