I brought a few young men to their knees. I’m guessing that’s how this story ends. I was exercising in the front entryway of my house. I choose to exercise there because the floor can handle the pressure. It can’t look any worse. It dates back to the 1980s when pink hearts and blue cottages ruled the world. We will replace it someday. I work out with my personal trainer. Okay, I’m just trying to sound fancy. It’s a YouTube video. The idea of someone watching me exercise and critiquing my every move gives me a panic attack. I am not athletic or coordinated. In fact, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I look like a drunken newborn colt.
The routine involves jumping, flailing arms and high kicks. Then there is the part where I I have to squat, stand up, squat and so on until my legs are on fire. I think I was in the squat position, looking like I was playing a solo game of leap frog when the doorbell rang. My shirt was bunched up in the middle of my back just enough to let the stretch marks breathe. The collar was stretched out, hanging low enough toward the ground to show my Hanes Her Way. I looked up to see a young man peeking through the window panel. I dropped and crawled to the next room. It was too late. They already saw me, but my instinct kicked in. At my house, when a stranger rings the doorbell we hide. I don’t want to buy popcorn, cookies or your religion. I already have all of the above. They rang the doorbell again. I am guessing that is in the missionary rule handbook. I didn’t answer the door. I couldn’t answer the door.
I’m sure they thought about me when they prayed at night.
Dear God, please let me unsee that.