UPS is here. Am I that woman?

To be fair I'd been waiting for weeks for it to arrive. It was Friday and it's not a sexy housecoat...

Really what are the odds? As a country property with no set route that within the eight hours of distribution time available the delivery guy will show up moments after I have exited the shower.

I thought I was hearing things, but the dog confirms it. Someone's at the door. NO! the inner voice screams NOT NOW! Scanning the room for something to put on in place of my housecoat, nothing appears. I run to the window to see him returning to the truck with my beloved package under his arm.

Within seconds I have to decide "Am I that woman?" Is he going to think that I'm the lonely housewife of countless jokes. Do I open the door in my housecoat or wait until Monday for my package.

Second glance. SHIT he's backing up. Now I will have to run out and flag him?

No time left. F it. Patience is not one of the virtues passed on to my generation.

I fling open my front door in all my pink fuzzy glory. Waving my arms like a it's an emergency vehicle and I've been stranded for days.

What if he doesn't see me? Panic sets in. What if he does?

The truck stops. Shit. Shit. Shit. What have I done? 

He's in the back of his truck retrieving my godforsaken package. The thought that I should just close the door and hide seems quite rational. He will knock. I will hide. We will both go about our day pretending this little incident didn't happen.

I close the door. Extra thankful for the etched glass. Hunkering down I remember the dog flew out when I opened the door and I can hear her jumping all over this poor soul. F balls now I'm committed. I should be committed.

He knocks. I crack the door enough to put my face out. "Package?" I say. Afraid that if I let any more words out I might try to explain the housecoat situation and he will be back at the shop telling the boys about the crazy lady that came on to him in the housecoat. "Yep" He replies, all chipper. Does he not know how traumatic this all is? 

I sign. He retreats. I sit on the floor relived it's over. The dog takes this as permission to lick my face. I hate dog licking.

At least I have my parcel. Wait, what is this? I didn't even order this. I toss it on the table too emotionally spent to care.

Later the boy comes home from school, grabbing his online purchase off the table with little regard to the trauma it caused. Running up the stairs he throws out a, "Thanks Mom". Thanks! Thanks! All I get is a careless thanks!

Maybe I should get back in the shower and start this day over again.