Doorbell Death Roll

While on the phone with my mom the other day, I caught someone walking up my driveway out of the corner of my eye. Jumping into action, I bolted from the couch and took a covert peek through the mini-blinds. Seconds later I heard a knock on the door.

My natural (neurotic) instincts kicked in and I immediately dove behind the couch while telling my mom to be quiet, as apparently I assumed the knocker had supersonic hearing.

Seeing as she will rush to shut the drapes upon seeing a solicitor walk down the road a mile away, this statement did not surprise her at all.

“It looks like there’s a DHL van parked next door and I didn’t order anything,” I said, cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder while crawling on the floor to get a look through another window.

“Maybe there’s an emergency,” she suggested.

“And the DHL guy who is parked next door calmly walked over here because he thinks I’m best equipped to handle an emergency?” I asked. “What kind of emergency would that be? Did he get a craving for hummus?”

“Good point,” she conceded.

Another quick glance through the blinds revealed him walking down my driveway, walking back up and ringing the bell. At this point I thought it might be important, but again, in moments of possible social interaction my survival instincts kick in and I decide better safe and anti-social than sorry.

While I waited for his retreat, I examined my rug burn and the situation at hand.

The truth is that I might be a Publisher’s Clearing House million dollar winner if not for the fact that I perform a death roll behind the furniture the second I hear the doorbell.

Why?

Because I’m most likely not wearing any makeup and smell like garlic, which means even if the DHL employee is hot, it won’t do me any good. But also because in other instances there’s a chance someone is selling something — be it religion or a $14 roll of wrapping paper that covers one small shoebox — and I don’t have an interest in either.

Plus, if I’m not expecting someone and the person at the door is a semi-stranger, I’ll be forced to yell through the glass out of irrational fear they’re casing the joint — even if they are a pack of nuns with fundraising sheets in their hands.

Spoiler alert: Unless you want drawers of rubber bands and incense, you should probably loot down the street. You’ll be much more satisfied there.

So to avoid both an awkward social situation that may or may not involve me in a robe wafting garlic in my wake and the potential for junk drawer pillaging, I feel like sprinting across the living room and diving into the kitchen to hide is actually a quite reasonable response.

As I peeked back out the window a minute later, I was able to report that my arch enemy was retreating down the driveway.

“Arch enemy?” my mom said while heaving a sigh. “What are you, a superhero?”

No, not a superhero. That would most involve a spandex costume and I can’t even be troubled to wear a real bra. I’m just an ordinary woman who performs a death roll behind the couch upon hearing the doorbell, my friends.

Unless you’re holding a big check with my name on the front. In that case, by all means come in.

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