A few years back we were living in an apartment building (Auckland’s Queen St) where each floor has the same basic layout.There was a long corridor from the front door to the bedroom/ living area. Directly left of the front door was the bathroom, the only access door from the corridor. Being in NZ, and having recently moved in, I was complacent about security and often forgot to lock the door.
I was a shift worker around that time, studying simultaneously, so I would work 30 or so hours straight and regularly arrived home at odd hours desperate for a shower and a sleep. On this particular occasion I had done a day at uni, a 14 hour graveyard shift and followed it up with another morning at uni. I arrived home around 3pm, dumped my stuff and stripped right off. As a couple living in a one bedroom apartment, I wasn’t too concerned about privacy or excessive modesty. In this case, home alone and delirious after a torturous train ride, I ripped the clothes right off and stepped into the shower leaving the bathroom door wide open. As I started to relax under the spray, getting my body into sleep mode so I could collapse for a 17 hour sleep stretch, I heard the rattle of a key in the door. I assumed it was the Mr home early (I couldn’t/ was too tired to process why). Turning (still in the shower – naked) (okay, maybe not a necessary thing to point out because I am not a never nude but still: NAKED) to face the door I saw the front door open and instead of my lovely partner, a box appeared.
The box was for a big screen LCD and it traveled slowly through the front door, past the bathroom door, pushed silently along the carpeted corridor. At this stage I’m still butt naked, my arms limply at my side and my brain fried. We’re buying a new TV? A new freaking TV? Where the hell did he get the money to buy a new TV? Once the TV had gone past the person pushing it appeared – first a hat (Why is he wearing a hat? He never wears hats!) over some scraggly blond hair (When did he grow hair???!!!), a beard, a stripey shirt, skinny jeans. His head bent over the television, he was pretty intently focused on getting his purchase into the apartment. I started to freak out. Suddenly my brain snapped into action! THIS IS NOT HIM. ABORT! ABORT! My fight or flight instinct translated directly into STAND PERFECTLY STILL AND HE WON’T SEE THE NAKED PERSON ABOUT 1.5M AWAY FROM HIM. As soon as he was past the door, I hopped out of the shower and grabbed a towel (having the presence of mind to turn off the shower, might I add), around which time he obviously looked up for the first time and realised he’d come into the wrong apartment.
In the thickest Scottish accent I’d ever heard – “Oh shit, where am I?” – he turned around and and finally saw me.
“Oh my God I’m so sorry!”
At this point I’m still so shell shocked that I don’t even say a word while he pushes the tv back down what now feels like the world’s longest corridor, muttering apologies the whole way. The only thing I can think is that the shampoo is running into my eyes and that I’m lucky my towel is long enough at the bottom (bath sheets FTW!). Although to be honest, for something that could have been ripped off me with one strong tug , it’s impressive how much more confident I felt with that towel on!
For about a year after that I regularly saw him in the lifts. I figured out he was on the 5th floor (we were on the 4th). I never worked out whether he recognised me without shampoo in my hair and eyes as wide as a power puff girl’s.
Moral of the story, kids: Lock your damn door.