Proselytizing. It even sounds inconsiderate.
And when it happens at 9 a.m. on a day off, I call it rude.
Today, two nice older ladies in flowery sun dresses woke me up. Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Hi, sorry to disturb you,” one said, obviously picking up on the fact that I’d rolled out of bed to answer the door. “We just wanted to leave you an encouraging message.” She pushed a pamphlet on “Life in a Peaceful New World” through the inch-wide gap of the barely open screen door.
I don’t normally answer my door because I know that anyone I want to talk to would call me before dropping by. (That, and I don’t have a bevy of “drop-by” basis friends here in St. Petersburg.) Today’s visitors dragged me from sleep with not one, not two, but four rings of the doorbell. With that much insistence, my comatose mind thought the person on the other side wanted to warn me to evacuate my apartment for a water main break or similar catastrophe.
I grumpily took their literature and closed the door while they uttered their have-a-nice-days.
Don’t get me wrong: I have no qualms with people relishing their faith. Go nuts. Not for me, but you just go ahead. However, don’t bring it to my door. Ever. I’m not buying, you shouldn’t be selling.
This makes maybe eight times I’ve had proselytizers come to the door since I’ve moved to Florida - compared to once in the 10 or so years I lived on my own in Michigan. I attribute that fact to living below the Bible belt in a state with an overabundance of the elderly. (I also never answered the door to see a door-to-door vacuum salesman in Michigan, like I did in Ocala. I thought they only existed in old cartoons, but that’s another post.) Each time I open the door to a zealot, I want to channel John Cleese as the taunting Frenchman from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
“Well, I’ll ask him, but I don’t think he will be very keen. Uh, he’s already got one, you see.”
Now go away, before I taunt you a second time.