Apparently I have traumatized the mailman. Again.
Today we finally get sun and almost no rain. I actually see blue skies … BLUE SKIES … for
the first time since Tuesday. I decide
shortly after noontime to sit outside and read.
Since I threw my hip out to left field on Wednesday, I have read three
books already while sitting around in recovery mode. The only reason I didn't read a fourth is
because I discovered I'm into a series, and book #4 is on its way via
Amazon. So I set myself up with a couple
of magazines.
To catch the full angle of the sun … THE SUN … I have to
angle my chair, as well. I am wearing a
strapless bathing suit top and a pair of shorts rolled high enough to expose a
decent stretch of thigh. It's okay --
I'm on my own patio facing my neighbor's window; if the little bastard next
door wants to stare at my cellulite, let him.
Might scare him enough to stop bothering me through his screen.
I hear someone walking up behind me while I am reading,
carefully angled toward the sun (did I mention THE SUN is visible today). I haven't gotten a mail delivery on Saturday
in two weeks, so I kind of assumed that Saturday delivery had already
stopped. I turn my head over my right
shoulder and look at the mailman to say hello.
Our eyes do not meet.
And our eyes do not meet because he is quickly looking down
and away and racing to get away from the mailbox and my patio. Perhaps he is in a hurry. Perhaps he just wants to finish his
route. Perhaps it is because from where
he is standing, all that can be seen are my bare shoulders and arms and my
uncovered legs.
Holy shit, he thinks I'm sunbathing naked.
Wait! Come back,
mailman. I'm not naked! Look, look!
My suit top is just low.
See? I'm merely trying to tan my
cleavage!
Holy shit, I'm actually debating using my semi-covered boobs
as a proof that I am not nude nor topless.
JesusMaryandJoseph, it's a wonder I get mail delivery at
all. This mailman isn't the same one I
accidentally pajama-flashed. I think
that guy had to be reassigned for trauma and PTSD. Sometimes I see him on the School Street
route when I am jogging (walking kind of fast), and I swear he runs and hides
in his truck. Now the new guy thinks I'm
a topless floozy sunbather who enjoys burning not just the bra but everything
beneath it, as well. I've turned into a
one-woman flash-mob -- and by flash I mean literally.
You know how the post office tacks up the pictures of the
Ten Most Wanted Criminals? I'll bet
there's a bulletin board in the back for the mail carriers, too: Bad dog at this address, kids that throw crap
at this address, bee's nest under mailbox at this address, and watch out for
the Mad Flasher who lives in the townhouse near the river.
What really fries my ass is that once upon a time some
mistaken moment like this, a moment where someone thinks I'm flashing when I am
actually not, might be cause for better mail service. Now that I'm nearing National Geographic age, I guess it's not nearly as exciting as it
must be downright scary as all shit.
Middle age definitely has its disadvantages. But hey, AARP still loves me, that much I
know. After all, the mailmen brings me a
card from AARP at least once a week.
Hmmmm, maybe that was the mailman's first tip-off. Damn you, Senior Citizens of America! It's all because of you that the poor mailman
thinks I'm sunbathing naked.
I'm no boob-flashing, patio-skulking, mailman stalking
freak! I'm a victim of
peri-ancientness! I've been mistaken for
an old broad! It simply must be some
kind of mix-up! I'm too young for AARP …
aren't I?
That's my version of what happened,
anyway. I just want to get that straight
in case the mail stops all together or the poor guy drops dead of sheer
fright. If the latter happens, I sure as
heck hope it's after he has delivered the mail.
I'm just saying.
