Yesterday I had decided to reward myself for a productive morning with something extra special: an afternoon nap. Scandalous, I know, but glorious nonetheless. My dog even decided to join me as she snuggled in next to me, though in return for her snuggles I was required to scratch her head – a rather fair exchange if you ask me.
As I slid into a wonderful world of impossible dreams, I was soon being pulled back to the surface of consciousness. My mom was trying to tell me something, but all I wanted to do was get back to that dream in which I was doing something important, though what that important thing was quickly faded from my memory. A few seconds later I heard her warnings again, but this time I actually tried to listen.
“The AT&T guy is here to fix the phone! You might want to get up!”
You see, if I was at all close to normal I would have taken my nap in my own bedroom, away from the intruding repair guy. But no. Instead I decided to crash on the futon mattress that sits oh-so-conveniently in our living room, not five feet from the modem this guy was about to try to fix.
“Erica! He’s here!”
I moved to make a run for my room. I was wearing an old ratty t-shirt. My hair looked like it had been brushed with pine cones. But worst of all, I wasn’t wearing jeans. I wasn’t even wearing sweat pants. Oh no. I had decided that I wanted to wear my short yellow shorts that had at least twenty Spongebob Squarepants faces on them (they’re comfy and it was ridiculously hot out, so the shorts beat out the rest of my wardrobe.) Let’s just say this wasn’t my proudest moment.
As I heard the footsteps approaching the front door, I calculated the risk and realized that there was no way I would make it to my room in time. So what did I do? I bolted for the laundry room, hoping and praying to God that I would have a pair of clean jeans waiting for me in the dryer. I could hear my mom welcoming him at the door, and I’m pretty sure I heard something about him being younger and cuter than most of the other guys that have been here to fix our phone. Awesome. As I continued on the quest for socially acceptable trousers, I found nothing but clean towels and a couple t-shirts. Of course that’s all I could find.
By this time the repair guy was already in the house. He had made his way to the modem and had started talking to my mom, and here I am cowering in the laundry room that’s basically a glorified walk-in closet. The only thing separating the maybe three feet between me and this guy is a paper thin door with a broken latch.
This wouldn’t be so bad, right? As long as he didn’t hear me I could easily be left undiscovered and hold on to the little bit of dignity I had left. If only the universe was so forgiving.
You see, I’ve failed to mention the one thing that gave me away: my dog. Right before I made the initial run for the laundry room, mom begged me to pick up the dog so she wouldn’t try to bite the poor guy’s ankles (she wouldn’t actually do this, but she might try to convince him she could.)
So as I’m cowering in our closet laundry room, still lacking proper clothing, all this guy can hear is my dog barking like crazy and my mom asking me why the hell I’m in the laundry room.
I try to cover my motives by saying I’m looking for a pair of jeans, after which she responds by handing me a pair of my brother’s jeans (thanks, mom!)
In an attempt to make the situation better, I proceeded to ask my dog if she wanted to help me do laundry. Out loud. Please don’t judge me.
What was probably only a couple minutes but felt like an unbearable eternity finally passed by, and I was still hiding. I’m pretty sure any normal and capable adult would not have taken that long to start a load of laundry, so I’m sure this guy thought I was either insane or just really stupid. He finally had a need to go out to his truck, which was my cue to run for my bedroom. I quickly acquired a pair of jeans, a t-shirt that was less than 10 years old, quickly fixed my hair as best I could, and walked out into the living room like nothing had happened. Because I’m just cool like that.
I have no idea why I felt the need to hide from this guy. Was he cute? Okay, maybe a little. But what does that matter? I’m not exactly looking for a relationship at the moment, and I’m pretty sure the guy mentioned kids at home. So why should I care what the AT&T repair man thinks of my SpongeBob shorts? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that my few moments of agony apparently resulted in some form of amusement for my mom and a few of my friends, so I decided to share it with you guys.
Moral of the story: You shouldn’t have to care what others think of you. But in the case that you do, know that it’s okay to laugh at yourself and your SpongeBob short shorts.
Question of the Day: Do you have any funny (or not so funny) embarrassing stories of your encounters with the repair guy?