Enough, already. No,
I mean it!
Those of you who read the postman story last summer know
that my décolletage gets more exposure than I do. I have gone through several postmen in the
last two years. At first I thought it
was because they retired, but I've spotted them on other routes just outside of
my immediate neighborhood. In my heart I
know it is because I have traumatized them.
The first postman incident involved me answering the door in
a flimsy nightshirt, giving the shocked postman a semi-glimpse of all the
things God gave me chest-wise, which, I'm not going to lie, isn't much. Honestly -- he shouldn't have been ringing my
doorbell at 9:00 a.m.
The second incident involved another postman who caught me
sunbathing. I was clothed in my usual
sunning outfit of shorts and a strapless bathing suit top, but my cleavage,
what there is of it, was facing the mailbox while I stretched out on the stoop
in a strapless top.
The third incident happened with Postman #3. I was sitting in a chair outside reading in
the same outfit of shorts and a strapless top when he came to deliver
mail. I chatted with him for a few
minutes by turning my head because my back was to him, keeping my front pointed
toward the sun. It wasn't until I got up
that I realized from his angle, it probably appeared like I was topless … maybe
even bottomless, too, out there in a chair on my private patio.
The landlord has gotten an eyeful when I stretched out on
the back stoop in my two piece bathing suit.
Of course it was the one day he decided to brave the backyard jungle to
walk the perimeter. He hadn't done it
before, and, let me assure you, he hasn't done it since.
Today I am trying to enjoy what little sun we are supposed
to get. The weather idiots claim it's
going to be a crappy day. (When and why
do I listen to these whackos? I can read
a radar map with as much accuracy.) When
I go for a walk/run at 9:45, the sun is blazing, the skies are mostly blue, and
I am sweating. After my walk, I sit
outside with that infamous strapless top and shorts. I move my patio plants around probably five
times, then I spread out a towel on the front stoop, which is really on the
side of the house in a private patio area
About five minutes in, a stranger walks up the driveway.
I live in a townhouse behind a main house. If someone walks up my driveway, it's
deliberate. One doesn't just
accidentally stroll up the brick parking area and to the walkway tucked in the
rear of the property. But here he comes,
an older gentleman in a button down shirt, tie, and pressed slacks.
"Can I help you?" I ask him. "Are you looking for someone in
particular?"
My landlord is a contractor with a very specific area of
expertise -- he is an Italian plasterer whose work has been featured on This Old House, so I assume it's someone
looking for him. Or perhaps it's an
errant realtor since the house next door recently sold. The driveways are fairly closely set, so
perhaps he took a wrong turn.
"I'm just delivering these flyers," he says
cheerfully, reaching down to hand me one, and, most assuredly getting a full
view of my cleavage that I am awkwardly trying to cover with the paperback
novel I am holding. He bows his head and
disappears to the other side of the building, hopefully to deliver his flyers
to the other townhouse.
I put the flyer into the basket that also holds my leftover
water bottle from my earlier walk, my key in case I stupidly lock myself out of
the house, and a can of bee spray to shoot any little bastard yellow jackets
who come too close. I continue reading
and stay out for an hour more. When I
finally get around to unpacking my basket, I pull out the flyer and give it a
quick perusal.
Jehovah's Witness
literature.
Holy crap. Not only
has my décolletage sent me through three mailmen in two years, but now I've
offended God, as well.
Part of me is horrified while the other part of me is
annoyed. This is my patio, my private
patio. I should be allowed to sit
outside in shorts and a bathing suit top.
Honestly, though, I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't admit that part
of me is slightly entertained. I mean,
seriously -- I'm no Dolly Parton, that's for damn sure, but the mere fact that
my cleavage at my age in my own yard gets more mileage than I do is
fascinating.
Still, enough, already.
Pretty soon I'll only be able to sit outside on Sundays when I know
mailmen, traveling salesmen, and Jehovah's Witnesses will be otherwise
occupied. Of course, my street is the
extended parking lot for the Catholic Church. I could be exposing my cleavage
to hundreds of families every weekend without intending to do so.
Never mind. I'll just
spend the rest of the summer indoors.
It's kind of hot and sunny outside, anyway.
