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Every day around 10:30am, if I'm home, I hear it...the crash clang of the whole bank of mailboxes opening. This is followed by the soft shoop thunk of letters sliding in and hitting the bottom of the box. Then comes the tinkling of keys and bang slam, the bank of boxes is closed and the mail carrier moves on. And every morning I bolt for the mailbox key and immediately check to see if I've gotten something. I do this even when I'm not expecting anything at all and despite the fact that I rarely get any mail. Not that I'm complaining...I rarely send any mail, so I can't expect to be receiving any. Letters are like love. They take time and energy, and if you want to get some you have to send some out. Still I leap to check, just in case. Like a spurned lover, or perhaps a loyal dog that keeps getting kicked, I trot out to check the empty mailbox. The big dilemma I face daily is, "Will anyone see me?" I ask this because, at 10:30am, I tend to still be wearing my pajamas and my pajamas consist of boxers and a tank top - not really indecent, but slightly uncomfortable attire for someone with a less than stellar self-image. Wearing pajamas till 10:30am, by the way, is the effect of keeping one's own hours and having nowhere to really be - one can dress how one likes. So every day I ask myself, "Do you feel lucky, punk?" Most days I answer "no" and quickly change into presentable clothing for the ten-foot trek to the mailbox. In fact, if the mail was delivered directly to the door, I wouldn't get dressed at all most days. Today I felt lucky. Nine times out of ten there's nobody in the hall when I make my dash, and then I've gotten out of my comfies for nothing. So today I would be bold. Today I would boldly slink out to get the mail and rush back before anyone could see. Very bold. The savvy reader ought to see where this is going. I stepped out and was immediately confronted by His Nibs, the next-door neighbour who fusses and fumes about every noise in the building. He wanted to talk (to ask if his stereo was bothering me, which is his way of saying that I had the TV on too loud) and since I had to pass him to reach the mailboxes, I was momentarily trapped. Just as I was finishing with His Nibs I heard a door opening behind me. There are two apartments there, so it was either The Gnome (an odd but sweet little woman who barely talks) or a prettyish woman I've only seen a couple times. It took me a fraction of a second to decide that The Gnome would be marginally less embarrassing than The Prettyish Stranger. I couldn't give up and go back to the apartment because His Nibs was still unlocking his door, blocking my escape. So I turned to get the mail. It was The Prettyish Stranger, of course. Now it's a silly thing, but the prettier the woman the less you want her to see you looking foolish. When you're single it's because you, as a guy, harbour the delusional notion that any woman you meet could fall madly in love with you. You don't want to spoil those chances. When you're in a committed relationship I guess it's a residual of that delusion...you want every woman to fall madly in love with you and to pine away wishing you were available. Something like that. Perhaps it also has something to do with every man's experience as a little boy. Boys like to think that they are quite tough, of course. We strut and swagger across the playground, fantasizing about fighting off hordes of attacking pirates (even when we live miles from a lake, let alone the ocean...pirates are always useful fantasy enemies) and generally build our self-image on a flimsy base of machismo. And then a girl (or worse, a gaggle of girls) laughs at us. Girls giggling. It's the mightiest weapon in the female arsenal, the giggle. A well-placed giggle can deflate a boy or man like a pin to a beach ball. It happens to every little boy at some point in his tender developmental years, and as men we carry that pin-prick scar with us forever. Anyhow...unless you're supremely self-confident, you don't want to be seen by any woman when you're wearing boxers and a tank top, especially if you do no credit to either garment. Nor does it help if your tank top says "The play's the thing" across the front. Luckily The Prettyish Stranger is of a private and uncurious nature and she made a hasty beeline for the door. I grabbed the mail, getting myself briefly snagged in the process (which she didn't see but probably heard), and scuttled back to the safety of the apartment before anyone else could show up. This will teach me. From now on, I either get dressed before checking the mail or I sleep in my clothes. |
