There’s nothing quite so disconcerting in the morning – as you’re walking around, getting ready – as seeing men outside your windows.
Especially when you live on the seventh floor.
Particularly when you tend to get ready in the buff. (I mean, that’s part of why I live on my own in the first place.)
The thing is, I’d seen the cables and window washer-esque things along the side of the building for a while now. But never any men. And management, up to this point, has always let us know when that kind of maintenance is going on. You know, so we can be dressed.
This time? Nothing. And if I’m being honest, it wasn’t just disconcerting, but a little scary, too. I live in a studio. There aren’t many places to hide, save the bathroom. And camping out there makes it extremely difficult to put my lunch together.
Once I realized, however, that whatever they were doing to my windows was resulting in dust and debris being blown inside my apartment, those feelings morphed into straight pissed off-ed-ness.
I may not dust or clean as often as I should, but I really don’t need any help making my apartment messier. And I don’t need you (yes, you, maintenance) breaking my window frames so that flies can get in and hang out. Or knocking out my window screens so that keeping the windows open isn’t a viable option when I’m not home.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the building and the management, and I’ve generally had a great experience. And I’m grateful for everything you’ve done until now.
But please stop fucking up my windows.
And, while you’re at it, a little heads up would be nice next time. I pay good money to have my own apartment so that I can walk around naked as I please, and I’ll be damned if you take that away from me.
Just so we’re clear.