When we lived in Indiana—waaaay back during the Cretaceous Period when my husband was in graduate school and I was a marketing rep for WordPerfect Corporation—we sublet our basement to LDS missionaries. The people before us had had an open door policy and let the missionaries just walk right through their house any old time they wanted—to get the mail, check the time, whatever. There was a door separating the downstairs apartment from the upstairs house, and the original renters had removed it so the Elders would feel like part of the family.
We put it back on.
We'd been married 2 years. I was young. I hadn't had kids yet, ergo, no stretch marks or veins or anything too icky. We were also young enough to assume that since the elders didn’t know us from the mailbox, they wouldn’t just come traipsing through our house.
Well, slap me with a referral but we were naïve. One day as the hub and I sat at breakfast noshing on shredded wheat and dressed in our P.J.’s (because it was early, okay? Too early to be sociable), one of the little dudes from the basement moseyed his way into our kitchen. We froze, spoons halfway to our mouths.
He stared at us. We stared at him. He blinked a few times. We blinked back. Then, without a word, he trotted on past us and through the living room to drop a letter into the box affixed to our house.
On his return trip there was more frozen staring. I punctuated it with surprised eyebrows just so he got it. I was sure he'd felt the discomfort and the potential Door-Back-On-It's-Hinges-ness of his little trek, and didn't think I would have to tell him he wasn't welcome to come that way anymore.
Well, one morning I was in the shower. I got out and realized I had left all my clothes in my room, which was adjacent to the bathroom down the short hall. Really short. More like a little convergence between the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom.
I thought, what the heck? I'll just streak to my room and get my clothes. So, hand on doorknob, I start to open the door. Suddenly I got this little feeling: Put Your Robe On.
Huh. I thought, Why? It's three steps to my room. No big. I'll just streak. Hand on doorknob.
Put Your Robe On.
Really? That's just silly. I don't feel like it. My room is right there. I can practically touch it with my ha—
PUT YOUR ROBE ON!!
Okay, okay! Yeesh. Keep your shirt on. I'll put on the robe.
So I put on the robe. Then I opened the door.
Annnd came face to face with missionary-boy. He stared at me. I stared at him. He stared at me. I nearly fainted. Fully-robed.
My hub talked to the clueless kid that very night. He rehung the door. And the missionaries walked around the house to get their mail from that day forth.
As for me, I tried to listen to little impressions from the Spirit a whole lot more quickly.
Also, I wear my winter coat when I go from bathroom to bedroom now. Just in case.