No Touching, Red Shorts!

The breeze was slight and the ocean was a blue blanket spread in front of me.  I was sprawled out in a lounge chair writing away on my laptop.  I was in the zone.  My fingers couldn’t keep up. Joggers and walkers sped around me like horses on a carousel, but I paid them no mind.  I was writing on a ship somewhere off the coast of Cabo San Lucas. It was blissful.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a speed walker heading my direction.  She was clad in a t-shirt and squat red shorts that, let’s say, didn’t suit her body type.  Earbuds tucked into her ears, she swung her arms vigorously to the beat.  As she passed me she looked my way and let out a disdainful “Tsk!” and kept on walking.  I looked around wondering what had warranted such a reaction.  I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  Maybe it was a special exercise breathing thing.  Other than riding my bike, I’m not really up on fitness type things like breathing and fancy stuff like that.  I shrugged it off and continued typing.

The second time Red Shorts passed me she slowed, leaned down, slapped my ankle, and motored away.  Was there a bug on me?  Was my lounge chair in the middle of the walkway and I didn’t realize it?  Was this some sort of joke I wasn’t in on?  I so did not understand what was going on here, but I didn’t want to slip out of the ever shrinking writing zone, so dropped my head and tapped away on my keyboard.

When I saw Red Shorts making her third approach, I stopped typing ready to solve the mystery I like to call “What is your problem?”  She came in for a third pass.  This time she stopped and grabbed my ankle.  My mind quickly reverted back to my childhood, but before I could even force the words “Stranger danger!” out of my mouth, Red Shorts began to scold me.  With music blasting into her ears, her voice at a volume appropriate only for rock concerts, she said, “You’d better not be working.  You’re on vacation.”  I assured her that I was not working.  I was writing and I like to write.  Sometimes I even call myself a writer.  She said “You’re a writer?  Then that’s working and you shouldn’t work on vacation.”  I explained that my profession is teaching and that I write for pleasure.  This didn’t compute.  She continued barking at me.  “Well my daughter brought her laptop with her because she just started up a new business and has to check up on it.  She was on that internet so much that I had to hide her computer from her!”

While Red Shorts railed on her daughter, I tried to figure out how to flee the scene.  The woman was standing directly in front of my chair with a Vulcan death grip on my ankle.  What was that my kickboxing instructor used to tell me?  Was it jab the eyes first?  Or was it a finger in the windpipe?  Should I kick free first and then knee her in the stomach?  Darn it, I should have stuck with those classes!  As I was debating self-defense maneuvers, Red Shorts took a breath.  Aha!  My opportunity to escape!  I calmly assured her that I was not working, but that I appreciated her concern and I hoped she had a lovely cruise with her daughter.  She admonished, “I just don’t want you getting into bad habits like that when you’re young.”  Then she bustled on down the deck not to be seen again.

‘Bad habits like that’?  Did Red Shorts really just give me a lesson on bad habits?  She’s the one who violated my perfectly calm writing zone.  Want a bad habit to break?  How about not grabbing strangers?  Just a thought.  I was a little miffed at first, but then I realized Red Shorts would make a great little story.  I’m sure she’d be very pleased knowing she’s supporting my ‘bad habit’.

The Garage Incident: A Cautionary Tale

I was hunkered down under my covers, dreaming the bizarre dreams that accompany a fever.  Suddenly, I woke up and discovered my pajamas were soaked in sweat.  I peeled them off and walked to the door that leads to the garage.  Wanting to air out my clammy skin, I'd not yet put on a second pair of pajamas.  No big deal.  Terry was on a business trip and I had the house all to myself.  As I walked to the door, I was feeling pretty good about the fact that I hadn't spiraled into a tornado of body image issues.  In fact, I was feeling pretty darn good about my natural self.

I opened the door leading to the garage and took a step toward the washing machine.  Before my feet could move another inch, I froze in horror.  The garage door was up.  I was naked.  In the garage.  For all to see.  Sweet, fancy Moses, I was naked in the garage for all to see!  I turned to hit the garage door button on the wall and as I turned, I glimpsed a white car in my driveway.  It was my mom.  My mom!  I was naked in my garage for my mom to see!  I slapped the garage door button and the garage door descended on my humiliation.  Did she see me in my birthday suit?  Was my step-dad in the car?  Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away.

I threw my damp wad of pajamas into the washer and dashed into the house to put on a fresh pair.  I figured the doorbell would be ringing any second.  Thirty seconds passed.  A full minute edged by.  Maybe she was wrapping up a phone call or something.  Five minutes passed and I ventured out to the driveway.  No car.  No mom.  Oh man, she'd seen.  I'd created an Awkward Naked Moment and frightened my mom away.  Maybe she got an emergency phone call and had to leave right that second.  Yes, that must have been it.

So I scooted back into the house and waited to hear from my mom.  After all, I wasn't going to call her and explain.  No way.  Not when there was still a slim chance she hadn't seen my business.  I certainly wasn't going to bring it up.  So, I waited.  And waited.  And fell asleep.  (It was the deep, dark hour of 9pm.)

I returned to my fevered dreams and awoke to my mother's voice on the answering machine.  She was saying something about having offended me and she was sorry and she didn't know why I wouldn't come to the door.  I staggered out of bed with a hint of lucidity and played her message.  The message only served to confound me even more.  I wasn't upset.  I was naked.  Wait a second, if she thought I shut the garage door because I was mad, then she must not have seen me.  Victory: my mom thought I was a jerk, not the neighborhood exhibitionist.  Hooray!

I'm pretty ok with people thinking I'm a jerk.  I'm not one of those people who needs to be liked by everyone, mostly because I don't like everyone.  And I'll be the first to tell you that sometimes I am a jerk.  But I didn't really want my mom to think I was mad at her.

Reluctantly I picked up the phone and dialed my mom.  Now, the trick was to explain what had happened without revealing too much.  I puzzled over how to guide our conversation away from you know what.  At first I thought I was going to get away with it.  She explained that she had knocked and rung the doorbell and upon seeing our cars at our house determined that we were home.  She'd decided to wait in our driveway until we emerged like groundhogs or something.  I filled her in on the fact that I was home alone, sick and asleep in my bed.  When she rang the doorbell, the noise must have roused me from my clammy nap.  I explained that when I saw her in the driveway, I assumed she was on her way in, not waiting for me to come out.

I thought I was totally in the clear and that I'd avoided having to confess, but no, the conversation continued and finally I couldn't do it anymore.  I just don't have the skills.  I exhaled and in one big breath laid out the entire embarrassing story.  My mom laughed and offered her sympathy.

It was a near miss, people, and we should all learn from it.  Keep your garage door closed at all times and never, ever be sans apparel.  Not even in the shower.  Ok, that might be a little drastic, but I'm still shell shocked.

I'm sure my mom will be laughing about this one for a long time.  I will, too.  In the safety of my home.  Wearing layers and layers of clothing.