The PostmanAs I’ve mentioned in other posts, when I’m at home I usually stay with few clothes on: a top, a T-shirt, a babydoll, even in winter as I have the heating switched-on, then maybe I wear a knitted sweater, but nothing else, nothing at all from my waist down.
When I moved to the apartment where I’m living now, the postman, of course, did not know me (the previous one was used to my life-style). The first time he came to bring me registered mail, I saw through the door peephole that it was the postman, and so I didn’t care for covering myself besides the sweater I was wearing. I opened the door. The postman, a guy in his forties, stood speechless for a moment and then he said that he had registered mail for Ms. M., asking me if I was that person. After I answered “yes”, he said I had to sign, pointing out where and handing me a pen. After I signed, I took the letter and stayed by the door reading who was the sender. Meanwhile, he looked astonished and stayed there, too, in spite of having done his work. I smiled, and said, “OK, thank you, bye-bye”. He said bye, too, and I closed the door. The next time he brought me registered mail he wasn’t so surprised and looked more natural, yet very interested in what he was seeing.
Once he came and handed me a letter… then I asked: “shouldn’t I sign anywhere?”. He looked embarrassed, as it wasn’t registered mail, but the kind of mail postmen leave into the mailbox. He said, “Indeed, I thought it was registered, but I realised it isn’t, sorry”. I replied: “Never mind”, with a smile that meant “you already had your eyeful of the day”.
Sometimes I meet him on the street and ask him if he has mail for me. Now he’s more confident with my way of living, and last time I met him on the street, he dared to say, “you look very nice ALSO in a skirt”…