Despite saying last week that the thrill of working in my PJs has worn off, I’ve been indulging in that particular facet of working at home lately. Working in one’s PJs might sound lazy, but really it’s not. I get up, grab some coffee, turn on the computer, and get right to work. I don’t have time right now to do more than that. The whole shower-and-getting-dressed thing revives me at the end of the day.
One of the reasons I don’t like to work in my PJs is the doorbell. It rang yesterday afternoon, at a time when all reasonable people are wearing actual clothes. You know, the kind that aren’t embarrassing when you wear them in public. I considered not answering—I’m still trying to make that tough deadline and don’t have a lot of time for interruptions. But the doorbell kept ringing, so I stomped down the stairs to answer it.
I don’t like to imagine what I looked like when I answered the door: T-shirt, pajama bottoms, slippers, and hair that may or may not have been brushed today. Not to mention the scowl of someone who has to make time she doesn’t have. The poor guy on my porch probably wished he hadn’t pressed the doorbell those last three or four times.
Census taker. Now, I returned my census form on the day I received it, precisely because I didn’t want to forget and then have to answer the door to deal with a census taker some day. But our house used to be a duplex, and it was listed as two residences, so we got two forms. I returned one of them, with a note that explaining that there were no longer two apartments at this address, just a single-family home.
Apparently, that wasn’t good enough. The census taker—who was very nice, very polite, and did an excellent job of covering up his reaction to the terrifying apparition that answered the door—filled out a form to say that no second apartment existed at this address. I gave him the information he needed, hoping none of the neighbors was checking out my attire as I stood on the porch looking like last year’s scarecrow. And that was that. Presumably, that same form was available in the Census office and could have been filled out by whoever ignored my note saying the exact same thing and instead put my house on the list of addresses to visit. Not that I’m annoyed or anything.
You’d think the moral of this story would be don’t work in your PJs. But no. I’m sitting here in my PJs as I type. I think the moral is more along these lines: If you want to visit me during daylight hours, call first. Or better yet, wait a month. I should look like a human being again by then.