Please, Please Mr. Postman--Go Away-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay

I don't know why, but whenever the mailman comes by and I'm at home I feel compelled to hide. My sofa is right in front of the picture window and it sits about 20 feet from the mailbox on the porch. If I happen to be I'm in my living room (which I usually am) and the postman starts coming up the front walk, I suddenly remember that I may need to go to the bathroom or I that I really could use a can of pop. He delivers my mail, he leaves, I come out of the bathroom and get my mail. Today I happened to be sitting in my truck. My local postal carrier came up the walk and I tried to look occupied.

I know how absurd this is, but it must be genetic because my mom told me that my dad does the same thing. He hears the mail truck outside and hides behind the open door until it drives off. It annoys the hell out of my mom.

Maybe it's something subconscious. Mail is a personal kind of thing. You're not allowed to open it if it's not yours and you don't want people reading your letters. The mail carrier sees your magazines, the type of stuff you shop for, who your relatives are, and how many credit cards you have. It's a little like running into your gynecologist in the checkout line at the market. Here's a person, a virtual stranger, who's seen you naked and looked directly at your private parts. Yet here you are at Super Target, making unofficial eye contact knowing that this person could be formulating opinions about you based on the items in your cart, critically eyeballing the three pints of Ben and Jerry's and jalapeno poppers.

Of course it could be just a ridiculous personal hang-up.