FedEx, why do you have to be that way with me.

The doorbell rang at some ungodly hour this morning and the dog went barking mad, as is her way. I was on the cusp of deep-REM sleep and decided pretty quickly not to answer, though the person rang twice. I thought it might have been my wife, having forgotten her house key on the way to an early morning medical checkup, in which case I calculated that she'd eventually give up and come around back through the rear bedroom door. Soon I heard footsteps on the rear deck and startled as something heavy set down not five feet from my toes, but then nothing more. No wife entered the room, and the dog stood noisy vigil at the front window. The worst pain is that of a tired man who is not sure whether to be scared.

I rose to discover a package from FedEx at my rear-facing bedroom door. You don't just walk up to my rear bedroom door — you have to go through a couple gates and get pretty intimate with my personal space. This FedEx driver, as far as I was concerned, had very nearly taken off her boots, gotten under the covers, and asked me to sign for the package across the expanse of her tough-nippled but silken-skinned breast. It's as near as I've ever come to being violated by a courier, and I have to tell you, I considered that thought from several angles as I grudgingly made the morning coffee and defrosted the hashbrown patty.