Evidently my grandmother used to vacuum in the nude. I won’t tell you how I came across this little tidbit of information but I will tell you this: it’s genetic.
It all started a few Saturday mornings ago when I woke up and realized that if I did not get out bed that very minute and vacuum the house before heading to Manhattan for the day, my parent’s would probably disown me (and seeing as my parents are also my landlords, I’d end up being not only disowned but also homeless).
So I got out of bed, and as it’s too hot to sleep in anything more than a pair of underwear this time of year, I threw on my robe and got to work.
But my robe is rather thick. Like hotel-quality thick, with long sleeves and a navy terry cloth belt. By the time I’d finished the first two floors, I was beginning to… you know… sweat. I realized I had a choice: I could stop vacuuming, take a shower and change into something a bit more suitable for housework, or I could simply strip and finish the job in my birthday suit, just like my grandmother used to.
Obviously, I chose the latter. I was home alone, after all, and I hate vacuuming. I knew that if I stopped to take a shower, I’d never finish.
So I stripped down to my underwear and finished the main floor in record time. I made my way down the steps, and into the office on the first floor without incident. But when I headed into the guest room, which has not one but two windows facing the street, I found myself face to face with a garbage man who was sitting in his truck just a few feet beyond the window pane.
I’m not sure what my grandmother would have done had she found herself in this sort of situation but I dropped to my knees and crawled out of the bedroom, up the stairs and back into my robe.
I mean, what other choice did I have?