I’m seething because of something that happened an hour ago.
I’m half undressed on my way into the bathroom. Fortunately my back is to the door. There are two women helping me. There’s a knock at the door. All three of us say, “Don’t come in.” The door opens anyway. We say again, “Don’t come in.” One of the kitchen workers pokes her head around the door and says, “It’s okay, I can’t see anything and I only have a question. Do you want chicken or fish tomorrow night for supper?” Too shocked to think straight, I answer obediently.
I’m floored. So are the women helping me. The fact that she “can’t see anything” or “only has a question,” doesn’t make it okay to do what she did. My privacy is more important than her need for efficiency. I don’t live in her workplace, she works in my home. That’s an important distinction. She crossed a line and needs to show more respect for my privacy.
Time for an email to the kitchen manager.
My privacy is a very precious commodity because I only have a little. I fight tooth and nail for whatever I have. I find the pharmacy technicians – that’s their official title, but really they’re drug mules doling out medications – are among the worst offenders. They “knock and walk” into my room and assume that I’ll drop everything to swallow their pill. And I usually do. When I moved here three years ago it really bothered me. If I happened to be on the commode in the bathroom, I would keep the door shut and make them wait. I’m used to them now, and usually let them in.
Hey readers, how do you feel about your privacy?
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