Dear Pizza Man,
I am so sorry for frightening you.
Last night I was dared to receive a delivered pizza in nothing but my skivvies. Being the stubborn egoist that I am (and 3 glasses into a bottle of syrah), I accepted the challenge; maintaining the logic that since I was not at my own home, any further pizzas delivered to this address would be done in my absence, therefore allowing me to skirt any form of follow-up embarrassment. My reputation was not tied to this “Apartment 503” so who cares, right?!
Well, it just so happens that the laundry lottery of my unmentionables that day, had drawn up a matching ensemble of black bra and thong. (Go ahead, fire up the porn reference engines.) Though, despite the implied sexiness, I decided that I would act perfectly normal, as though I were answering the door outfitted in a wholesome sweater and mom jeans. This might alleviate the awkwardness, right? After all, I just wanted to eat my pizza and prove to my current company that I was a woman of my word.
I shuffled down the hall at the first sound of knocking, cold and awkward with a cash tip eagerly burning a hole through my hand. Opening the door I smiled, curious as to what expression I would meet.
Now one might think that to an unassuming pizza delivery man, a young woman in her underwear might merit a giggle, an uncomfortable smile, perhaps just an awed look of surprise. Maybe even a tired look of “Oh, not this again. I get it, you’re some kind of voyeur, la-di-da. Here’s your pizza, lady.”
What I didn’t expect was a look of fear. A sincere, genuine, frightened face.
This man, in his forties with a certain Cosmo Kramer quality, stood aghast as if I were pointing a revolver directly at his nose
I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to apologize.
I smiled and carried out the transaction with a benevolent nonchalance, trying to keep the man from backing away in horror, falling unknowingly off the lanai, and five stories to his death (with my pizza in hand, no less). My tone of voice cried, “Oh don’t worry Mister, I really am a perfectly respectable individual despite my current attire and wine stained tongue. Please, carry on.” But it was useless. The damage was done.
This poor man probably recently changed careers after being accosted by a sexually vigorus female boss, his mother probably talked down to him and spanked him til he was 14, forever cementing his fear of aggressive women. He probably just got out of a long-term relationship with a giant sugar mama who forced him to perform lewd acts in exchange for food and shelter. This pizza job was his attempt at financial independance. His attempt to regain a healthy persepective of the modern woman.
And here I am sending him back into a spiral of despair!
I can’t even get sexy right!
So I am sorry, pizza man. Your face has been haunting me for the last 12 hours.
I am sorry about your mother, and your boss, and your ex, my black bra and undies, and the 10% tip I gave you.
Rest assured, next time I will place an order for pickup
…in a giant parka.
Love,
Tayler
