The intercom buzzed.
"Hello?" I said through our little plastic box on the wall.
"UPS," a male voice said.
"Come on up."
I tried to flatten my bedhead with a palm full of spit, tied my bathrobe around me a bit more tightly, and opened the door a crack. A monstrous giant of a UPS carrier towered on the other side of the threshold.
"You'll have to excuse me," I said. "I have a terrible cold."
"So do I," he said with obvious sarcasm, as though to say So what? Who cares. Look at me. I'M still out and about.
I kept my head down and busied myself with signing for my package, because if I had looked up at his self-righteous face, I think I might have said something rude like
That's right, Mr. UPS Man. I bow before your fucking robustness.
This is not the first time he has done this, either. The last time he came to the door, it was earlier in the morning, and I had some heavy puffy-face going on with an infected hair follicle blooming into full pus-itude on my chin. I know that I have a tendency toward extreme hotness, but honestly, I did not need him to look me up and down and mention that he had been up since 5:00 a.m.
Is this a thing now? Are UPS carriers the front of judgement that keep tabs on those of us who work from home, are psychologically infirm, or otherwise keep odd hours? Must I now feel pressured to present my best face to the delivery person, even when I'm leaking enough snot to bottle it and sell as glue, lest he sarcastically point out my obvious shortcomings as a human being?
I have decided that I will mentally mock him every time he comes to my door from now on for his strange predilection to shave every inch of his exposed flesh, because, seriously, he's nakeder than anyone I know, even the babies.