Release Thy Guilt, Woman!

Nothing strikes panic in my heart like the ding dong of the doorbell mid day. Do I have some strange phobia of doorbells? No, although I'm sure I have enough issues to keep any psychiatrist busy for weeks, months even.

The anxiety I feel is mainly due to the fact that I'm never appropriately dressed to answer the door. No, I'm not a nudist. Hubs would like that, though. I've used my wicked Paint skills to draw this representation on how I normally look.

It might not be the most accurate picture. I do have a torso. And a head, a neck, a couple arms, the usual. And my feet aren't quite that malformed. They're not pretty. But they are more foot-like in real life. I may have shaved off a few pounds. Oh, come on. You know you would too.

Unfortunately, the amount of hair growth on my legs on a typical day isn't too far off from the picture. And many days I wear shorts around the house. And unfortunately, my leg hair is dark. See where I'm going with this? I know my standards of acceptable personal hygiene and attire have dropped considerably in the last 6 months, but even I can't answer the door looking like that.

While the top half of my body is considerably less hairy, it's generally not ready for public show either. I live in nursing tank tops. Here's the problem with that. I still look, oh, 4 or 5 months pregnant. Except there's no baby in there so it's all squishy and flubbery. Not so hot hanging out the bottom of a nursing tank top. Couple that with the cloth nursing pads I use (which can be seen from a mile away under almost any shirt) and you've got one hot mama.

Just for the record, I attempted to recreate the top half using Paint but it ended up looking like really bad cartoon porn so I decided to leave that out. You're welcome.

So when someone comes to the door, panic strikes. I rush around the house, searching for a clean pair of pants and a sweatshirt so I can answer the door with some bit of dignity intact. It's in those moments that I seem to move in slow motion. I can't find a shirt and when I do I struggle to get it on. Same with my pants. It's like a bad dream. A dream that I actually have sometimes. I'm generally naked in my dreams, though. And many times in a public place. I either can't locate any clothes or can't get them on. Too much? I'll stop with the dreams.

Do I have a point amidst all of the hair and tummy fat? I think so. Oh, I remember. Yesterday, DURING NAP TIME, the doorbell rang. Panic! At least I have pants on as opposed to my usual shorts. I scrambled to find a sweatshirt to cover the top half. Success! I get to the door holding Little One, to find that our visitor was on his way down the stairs. He stopped and turned around.

And that's when I realized what he was. Yes, I said what and not who.

He was a magazine salesmen. You know? The ones who come around talking of all the glorious prizes they'll receive if you only buy a magazine subscription from them. It's not like it's even a school fundraiser or something worthwhile. It's for someone who is too lazy to get a real job and falls for the glitz and glamor of... door to door magazine sales? Sorry if you are or ever have been one of these folks. I just don't get it. I suppose I might go AWOL and join the program if I knew all of the juicy details.

Somehow, I declined his generous offer. Yet I felt guilty. I felt guilty when he's the one who goes door to door asking people to buy magazines. Thanks to his quest for these magical points, I now have 2 screaming children since he rang my doorbell during nap time. But I truly felt guilty for not buying a magazine from this guy.

Women, we need to let go of the guilt. Let go of the guilt for not spending enough time with the kids, not cleaning enough, not shaving your legs, forgetting your brother's birthday, cooking something your husband doesn't like, and yes, even for not buying a magazine subscription from a total stranger. Who rings your doorbell. During nap time.

I think I'm just going to stop answering the door. It always gets me into trouble. Just ask Hubs about the time he came out of the bathroom to find 2 Mormon gentlemen on our couch. He loves telling that story. If nothing else, I provide him plenty of great stories to tell.