The doorbell rang.
No, wait, someone knocked.
“You get it,” I said. “One of you guys get it, seeing as how I’m not wearing any pants.”
Like puppies climbing over each other to get out of their basket when the mailman rings the doorbell, they all ran to the door.
See, I was going to be painting a table, so I had come downstairs in the teeshirt I’d slept in and a pair of underpants, because I’d planned on putting on my paint-covered overalls, which are in the cellar. And then they’d called me in for breakfast as I passed the kitchen, and so I was sitting in my kitchen at nine in the morning on a sunny Sunday.
I heard voices. “Whoever it is, dude, don’t let them in, since I am sitting here in my underpants, you know.”
“He’s in here,” my wife said.
“Thanks,” the music school director said.
“Would you like some coffee?” my wife asked the music school director.
“That would be nice,” she said.
“Good morning,” I said, and shook her hand, because in Austria it’s polite to always shake someone’s hand when you meet. “Pardon me for not getting up, but I’m sitting here in my underwear.”
She was carrying the draft of the school newspaper I do for them. “Didn’t you get my mail?” She had sent me a mail saying she’d drop by on Sunday, but didn’t give any particular time.
“No, no, I got it,” I said. “Look, would you mind if I went and put on a pair of pants?”
“No, go right ahead,” she said, politely looking somewhere else.
“Would you like milk with your coffee?” my wife asked.
“Yes please.”
“Sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
The doorbell rang
Posted in Metamorphosism
excellent. at least you were wearing a t-shirt.
As long as they were clean.
Mr. President, the world needs to know:
boxers or briefs?
I’d have been tempted to lean back, scratch my belly and fart a big stinker
i once answered the door to one of my neighbors while i was dyeing my hair with henna. i jammed a hat on quick over the plastic bag covering my head and thought that while i looked a little goofy wearing a hat inside, it would probably pass as okay. or at better than not answering the door when i was certainly home.
after a brief conversation with the neighbor, i checked myself in the mirror. as always, some of the henna had chunked out of the plastic bag and onto my clothes. it looks (smells, too) not unlike fecal matter. whoops.
then i had to avert my eyes whenever i passed him for like 6 months, until i overcame my shame. which was a pity, because he was the only cute neighbor in the building.
but now i can giggle about it. meeting the music school director in my underpants, though… i might have to change buildings, or possibly even towns, over that one.
I read, this morning, that it’s customary to shake hands with the staff in small shops, even. Is that true? Should I wear pants?
Grey knit briefs, Brian.
Jessica, I don’t think I’ve ever shaken hands with shop staff. Maybe I’m just a snob, but I think they’d sort of let you know, you know, by holding out their hand or something. Usually when they hold out their hand, though, they’re taking your money or giving you change… hrm…
Maybe they grumble about that man who always comes in and pays them off not to shake their hand. What do the other customers do?