This morning, after my consistently rushed 20-minute routine, I noticed that I had left the door to my loft cracked overnight.
I did a quick inventory of my valuable items: television, laptop, iPod. At this point I realized I don’t own much of value. For a second I empathized with a potential robber – this place would be a total bust.
My beloved fridge and other appliances would require disassembly in order to begin the painstaking trip down the narrow stairwell. My alcohol inventory is highlighted, not by Dom Pérignon, but wines purchased at Trader Joe’s and liquor priced under $30. And my artwork, not yet precious, is either my own creation or a collaborative effort with a good friend of mine.
This may be why I sleep so well.
In my youth, I would lay in the top bunk, eyes wide open, running through scenarios for a potential house invasion. I wasn’t as inventive as McCauley Culkin in Home Alone. In fact, each time I came to the same solution. I would have time to get two shots off with my paintball gun. I would have to hit each of his eyes, and while he’s dazed, round up the family.
Nowadays, locking my front door probably happens just over half the time. And it’s not like I feel like I’m living in a safe neighborhood. I’m confident the hotel around the corner is running some type of prostitution ring, I’ve awoken more than once to cracked out homeless men conversing below my window, and to me the sound of sirens have the same effect as the sound of a summer night or running stream that some plug in a device to listen to.
I guess I just figure that if they go as far as checking the door to make sure that it’s locked, they’ve probably already gone far enough to figure out a way to get in. So maybe if it's left unlocked, they'll figure there is nothing worthwhile.
That said, the whole leaving the door open thing must stop.