Memo

To: You
From: Me

Greetings from the laundry room of my parents’ house, where I will be hiding until further notice. Hero’s welcome to Tennessee has morphed into a duck-and-cover, a la Harrison Ford in The Fugitive (but with less gore and more dirty socks). Cause for distress? Two SWMs, aged 22 years and 32 years, who’ve taken residence.

Okay, technically they’re remodeling the guest bedroom, but you’re missing the point. They’re right here. In the house. Close range. They see me when I stumble in from a 4-mile run, huffing and sweaty. They see me eating spaghetti sauce with a spoon directly from the fridge. They see me digging through laundry in my bedroom, looking for a clean pair of shorts. They’re always watching. Please send back-up, asap (and maybe a sexier pair of shorts, too).

I’m not usually this paranoid about the opposite sex (or, as we called them in college, um, "them"). I even have a few male friends, though none are single and/or straight. I should probably add this tiny detail to help you understand the urgency of my situation. It’s small but significant. Really, I shouldn’t mention it at all, because there could be children present – and parents, too. Jeez. Well, one could say that I have a history with the 22-year-old SWM. Specifically, you could define "history" as "one night." Or, if you prefer, "the one night I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea, in addition to several shots." That’s all the info you need, I think. S.O.S.

More from me later. I hear footsteps.