My giant purple underwear was on the floor, and I wanted to die.
Not die actually. Maybe crouch in the corner and curl into a ball, press my eyes into my knees caps, snivel while envisioning a hole to come save me, swallow me up.
On the outside I nodded and smiled. On the inside I was chiding, “you’re the worst.”
I knew the builder was coming at 10:30 a.m. to do a walk through of the house. There’s been a handful of them lately, breezing by to give estimates of proposed work to be done. They ask questions. I know zero answers. Ha ha, it would be funny if I were exaggerating. I mean I literally do not know one answer to the myriad questions they ask.
Where’s the air conditioning blah blah blah. What? What type of siding are you using? What? Windows? What? Do you need a variance? What??
“Don’t mind me, I just live here,” I quip. Meanwhile, these guys are here for their jobs. To give honest, professional estimates. They need my answers to make informed projections. I bet my jokes get old quick. I bet they are quietly chiding, “she’s the worst.”
Still, 10:30 a.m., and I’d made the attempt to be presentable. Especially after the time when you were babies and a builder knocked on the door–and I mean you were babies, a time when as a woman you feel so un-human, when there is no sleep and lots of milk and no showers and sparse contact with this thing called the outside world, and I’d opened the front door thinking, oh whatever, who cares what I look like, it’s just some old man with a plumber’s crack, only to find Brad Pitt’s clone standing there in a black leather jacket with one foot up on the motorcycle he’d arrived on (“Hey, did you know Max was recently voted one of Brooklyn’s Most Eligible Bachelor’s by New York Magazine?” your dad conveniently mentioned later that evening, to which I’d said “you don’t say, har, har, har!” while, with hands full baby, I blew my nose on my shirt sleeve).
There are times when you guys forget to flush the toilets; I’d even went around and checked the bathrooms for surprises…
Feeling confident in the state of our home, I followed today’s builder up the stairs with ease, until–
SON OF A!
I’D FORGOTTEN THIS MORNING YOU GUYS WERE RUNNING AROUND WITH DIRTY LAUNDRY FROM THE HAMPER ON YOUR HEADS!
WHAT IS THAT PURPLE THING ON THE FLOOR RIGHT BY WHERE THE MAN IS STOPPING TO CHECK OUT THE AIR VENTS? WHAT IS THAT? PLEASE DON’T BE? NO, DON’T BE? OH NO, IT IS. OH GOD, THIS MAN IS LITERALLY STANDING OVER MY GIANT PURPLE UNDERWEAR. DOES HE SEE IT?? MAYBE HE DOESN’T SEE IT. OH MY GOD HE WOULD HAVE TO BE BLIND NOT TO SEE IT. WHY DOES MY UNDERWEAR LOOK SO BIG? OH MY GOD I WANT TO DIE. I WANT TO DIE. I WANT TO DIE.
Or at least bury into my knees in that corner…
Alas, I had to stand there, enduring questions I didn’t know the answers to.
Is it one zones or two? Sweet lord hay-Zeus.
Yesterday morning you, Baby Boy, asked me to build you a man corner.
You said this to me verbatim, “can you build me a man corner.”
You said you wanted a place to put all of your “guys.”
While at first I thought, okay, this is happening. My 3 1/2 year old son wants a man cave. This is an innate guy thing. This is real. He shares a room with his sister, and he wants a place to escape all the pink.
It’s since dawned on me: It’s not just a man thing, it’s a people thing.
Our homes are our turtle shells. We keep out stuff here. Our guys. Our things. We feel safe in our squalor, in our quirks, in our ignorance.
Inviting someone into your home is a very personal thing. You open up that front door and air your dirty laundry. Evidently, literally.
You’re not always going to be guest ready.
You run the risk of getting caught off guard.
And so it goes, those are the chances you take in life.
That’s what happens when you let people in.
You expose yourself and with it, imperfections. I’m talking potentially embarrassing, red-cheek inducing stuff.
It’s either that or haul yourself up in your turtle shell. Which is nice, sometimes (see me on Fridays). Others…
You have to open that door, and go with whatever that brings.