I had a close scrape this morning, a near-embarrassing moment that would have ranked second to my most embarrassing moment ever, which will not be spoken of here. I was in the shower, relaxing, enjoying my Sunday, and when I stepped out I thought to myself, “Let me just check my messages to make sure no one called.”
Wrapped in a towel, I meandered over to the telephone and picked it up. A sharp, fast beep let me know someone had called. I dialed voice mail, listened.
“Hi, Stephanie, this is [my apartment manager]. I guess you’re not here. I just wanted to let you know I’m bringing someone by to see the apartment at 12:30.” *click*
My mind whirled. What time was it? I crossed to the dressed, glanced at the clock. 12:32. Shit. I clutched the towel close and prayed as I rummaged through my dresser drawers, searching for clothes, any clothes. Please let them be late, please let them be late, I chanted. I imagined the key turning in the lock, the expression on my landlady’s face as she took in my wet hair, shocked expression, yellow towel and nothing else. Would I play it off with class, standing up straight and saying, “Hi there. Just give me a second?” But which way would I turn then? I couldn’t turn around if the towel was held in front. I would have to edge past them to the bathroom, passing within two feet of the intruders. Not good. I could crouch on the floor, frozen in their gaze, waiting for them to just close the door again. I could dash for the bathroom, hoping to reach it before they stepped in.
I ran. Into the bathroom, locking the door, tossing on clothes. There was a knock. I stepped out. They walked in. “Hi,” I said. “Sorry I missed your call.” My hair was soaking wet. My feet were bare. But I was wearing clothes. Thank God.
One more thing: Who got here by searching for “stephanie mcmahon in a suit”? Step up and say hi. I dare you.