Usually our postman thrusts the mail through our slot, haphazardly and dismissively, leaving envelopes, catalogs, and unemployment checks splayed every which way but neat. Once, I found a wedding invitation, weeks later, dustily bent behind the water heater.

Anyway, today, as I aerobicized to “Digging Your Scene” by the Blow Monkeys, I spied our erratic mail carrier meticulously placing our mail one by one through the swinging mail door. I thought this was out of character, until I realized the front screen door next to the mail slot hid none of my exercising and that my right boob had escaped my lycra top, and dangled there, like an abandoned Newport News catalog, caught halfway between the mail bucket and the water heater.

Sadder still, I briefly considered doing this everyday, same time, same place, to ensure timely and organized mail delivery.

I really need to stop working from home.

p.s. This happened in 2002, and needless to say, my boob didn’t inspire efficient mail delivery.