Whose stupid idea was this?

Whenever a strange, unfamiliar car or bicycle or pedestrian creeps up the driveway and my dog starts going nuts, I usually make the mistake of walking into the kitchen to unlock the front door, thinking it’s my mom getting home from work.  At this point, it is usually too late.  I have French doors, which are almost entirely made of glass.

I once informed my father of the seemingly obvious pointlessness of a glass door.  I was distressed by the safety issues attached to our fragile, breakable portal to the outside world: 

Me:  “But Dad, it would be so easy to break a glass door.  A murderer could come right in and kill us!”

My dad:  “Well at least you would see him coming.”

My parents say such reassuring things. 

Anyway, that point relates back to the point I just was distracted from:  it’s a bloody clear door.  So that random creepy FedEx man/charity collector/unwanted neighbor/religious person/police officer/murderer who happens up my driveway can see that I’m suspiciously watching them from my kitchen, and knows there’s someone home even after I flee upstairs.

You see, I am terribly socially awkward.  I don’t have any mental disabilities or anything like that... At least not that I know of... but I am not so good with conversation.  I don’t like talking on the phone.  I don’t even like calling my friends on the phone.  I’m deathly afraid of that awkward moment when you realize you don’t want to be on the phone any longer, and you’re both just like “Yup...yup...yup...okay bye.  Bye.  Bye.”  Or is that just me?  Am I the only person damned to phone-phobia? 

Can you imagine my paralyzing discomfort when facing a potential face-to-face interaction with an actual, in-the-flesh stranger who could possibly be out to rape me and my cats then sell us to slavery?  And all because my stupid door decided it wanted to be completely transparent.  I bet it thought it was real cool and all that.  “Oh, look at me in all my glory!  Just kidding, you can’t, because I’m totally composed of invisible glass.”

By the time I escape from my foreign trespassers by ducking behind my counter and crawling on hands and knees to my stairs to stay out of their line of vision, I am already feeling the shame of what I have just done.  I can feel the eyes burning critical holes through my house, and I know they know I’m in there, avoiding them.  I can feel the judgment seeping through the ventilation ducts, the floorboards, and the plumbing.  I know they’re standing out there, feeling rejected, all because I don’t know how to talk like a normal person.  I practically start hearing their thoughts:  

I see how it is.  Another douchebag who won’t donate to support breast cancer patients...

Well she looks suspicious.  I better add her to the suspect list...

So good of you to thank me for tirelessly delivering your useless packages every month.  Skank...

I love living next door to you!  Why won’t you love me?!

The burning embarrassment of the incident often almost drives me back downstairs to right my magnanimous wrong, but then I remember that they could all be axe murderers.  I figure that it’s just safer to wait for them to leave.  I keep clutching onto my trusty machete until I’m sure they’re not going to turn around and bust through the French doors because of their hatred of lazy delinquents like me and arrogant windows that pretend to be doors.

I should just probably hang a sign that says “Trespassers will be shot on sight” to avoid future mishaps.  Although... that seems a little too tame to get the job done.  I have very persistent neighbors. 

AHA!

"Trespassers will be ravaged, maimed, mutilated and sold into slavery along with their cats."

That'll hit 'em where it hurts. The old ladies of Leverett are tight with their cats.